Depression is not dimness—
it is burning too bright,
a flare that rips open the silence
of an otherwise endless night.

You shine, not softly,
but like a star straining
against the weight of its own fire,
a brilliance so fierce
it begins to devour itself.

The world sees only the glitter,
not the exhaustion behind it,
not the marrow turned to fuel,
not the ache of carrying light
meant for galaxies.

And then—
a sudden quiet.
No fading, no warning,
just absence.
A blink,
a hollow in the sky where you once were,
the darkness swallowing your name.