Depression has reduced me to a stubborn vending machine, spitting out your affection as if it were a wrinkly five dollar bill

Self-loathing shields me from your compliments,  barely any leave a mark on me

Anxiety makes me question your motives,
as if you have something to gain from lying to me

Loneliness makes me crave your attention but doubt makes me reject it

It's not that you aren't giving me enough love,
it's that I'm too broken to accept it