I want you to know about the little devil living in my brain.
You haven’t really met her yet, she’s quite vile and cruel, and I hate what she makes me do.
You see her in my anxiety, when I text you far too much, or call so late at night.
But you haven’t yet seen her in my depression, here in my darkest times.
She makes me want to cry, she makes me want to die. She tells me that you don’t love me, She tells me that you will fly away and leave me to my torment. She tells me that I’m stupid and ugly and useless, horrible and selfish and sad. She tells me to hurt myself, that I’ll feel better once I bleed.
She tells me that everything would be so much easier if I just gave up and drew my last breath.
She tells me terrible things, and sometimes, I believe her.
But now you’re here. You’re the voice of reason, my reminder that I’m not a waste a space. You muffle her whispers with your warmth.
So, yes, she’s still here, and she’ll still fight to make me quit.