sometimes Depression
is the wingman for my evergrowing crush
on Death, of course
he tells me what to do
in order for him to love me back
slit your wrist
let the blood spill
stare at the half-full
orange pill bottle in the medicine cabinet
some days
Depression makes me a better person
he tells me that Death will like me better if
i dont get out of bed
if i become skinnier
because he likes being the big spoon
he likes to swallow me up in his arms
and never let me leave
Depression whispers the secrets
the keys to unlock Death's heart
and when i finally gain the courage
i confess to Death
with a noose around my neck