it gets better with time.
it gets easier to interrupt the chain reaction,
to stop following down the rabbit hole
of every first subconscious reaction
that triggers a well-tried response.
and if you don't give up on trying
the hope might just carry you through
and across the finish line.
what you have been suffering from
doesn't define you,
but it does get better with time.

it's not the kind of place
one wishes to return to,
its welcoming embrace
is made to suffocate.
i wish i could stray from
the path that leads me to it,
but it took everything,
it even claimed my name.
and now i've grown to hate it,
the sound of being seen;
shame makes a perfect rope
to hang my self-esteem.
the memories come in pairs,
but always black and white;
i know that place's a trap,
yet i still crawl inside.
now there is all this pain
preventing my escape,
it whispers "welcome back,
it's time to suffocate."

we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.

they'll give it a name,
but a name doesn't mean
they'll take it more seriously
now that it has a place
in the common vocabulary.
it's still something
they don't understand,
since they can't relate
to battling the heaviness
just to stay present,
they don't know the weight
of staying awake.
now they put it on screens,
they promote it commercially,
mass-produced relief.
it still doesn't equal acceptance,
and just being able to live
shouldn't need to be paid for.
they give it a name,
but a name doesn't mean
they're no longer afraid to say it.
though it has its own place
in the vocabulary,
the victims remain unseen.

when the nights grow longer
and the days grow darker,
and the only light is the one
that can be switched off anytime,
you force yourself to wake up,
you force yourself to eat,
you force yourself to try
just a little harder,
and when you need to sleep
you have to force yourself,
ironically enough,
not to think
about the looming danger,
about the trembling hands,
about every test you couldn't pass,
about how the nights are longer
and how the days are darker,
and the only light you've got
is the one inside your heart.

i stay out of it more than i used to,
painting pictures on a metaphorical canvas.
anything is possible if i want to
find something that catches on,
leave everything else that matters
and turn away from it all.

i have great conversations with myself,
drawing memories like a string to wrap and tighten.
i live and die keeping it to myself
with every thought that spills through
like gasoline, begging for a lighter.
i stay out of it more than i used to.

a thin red line,
it's there for all who do not know
if they are going to be here
to see the sun,
the way it rises,
chasing all the shadows out,
the way it wraps its shining warmth
around the ground,
around our souls.
you make a vow
to fight as long as you still have
the strength to take another breath
and fill your lungs,
and take a step
towards the twilight as it fades
with every star that it creates,
so in its final burst
you hope it takes us all,
may god have mercy on our souls.