It all started in winter
when the heavy snow
fell on my shoulders.
I lost myself in
the emptiness.
I thought it would
never end.
Then spring finally came
with its blossoms
and chirping birds.
Everything bloomed
while I was dying.
I told myself
that it was not warm enough yet.
I waited for the summer,
but the sun only burned my skin,
and I wanted to
disappear.
The autumn became my
last hope,
one last try,
but those rainy days
made me even more lonely
and desperate.
Winter came back,
and I realized that this
depression is not seasonal,
and it does not matter
where I am.
I still feel the same way.
Breathing is too tiring,
and I feel too much
to feel anything.
