My depression does not cook me dinner she insists that a bottle of water is meal enough
And when the gnawing ache of hunger keeps her from sleeping she settles for chips and two advil PM pills
my depression doesn't clean my room she doesn't care about the laundry overflowing to each and every corner of my room
she convinces me that living out of a hamper is perfectly fine
and when my mom's nagging grates on her nerves enough she tells me that dumping my clothes into a pile on my closet floor count's as cleaning as long as the door is kept shut
my depression keeps me from writing says my words are shit anyway that no one reads anyway
that I'm wasting my time trying to turn my pain into poetry and sometimes I believe her
my depression is believable she could be a member of a debate team
she makes arguments so convincing
she has me thinking they were my idea to begin with
because I can hear my voice in her words each and every time
