Sometimes I wish for someone to tell me that I'm okay
Or at least that I would be,
On a different day.

Because some days, I feel like I identify too much
With a shriveling flower
Too late to be saved, too bent and crushed

But nobody wants to tell me that
Maybe they don't care. I don't blame them.
I don't deserve to be saved. But that doesn't change the facts.

Maybe the reason most depressed people
Become killers of the monster that has now become themselves
Is because it already feels like death; dying.
Like holding onto the edge of a cliff that you know you're going to fall off of.
But there's your family, your friends, all the people you love, begging you not to let go.
Even though you know. You know
Eventually you'll slip, and they'll hate you for it.

Don't let me slip.
Don't stand there and beg, hold onto me.
*Please?