The first time it hit me was the hardest.
I didn't want to live anymore.
I didn't want to breath, eat, drink or do anything.
I lost all my motivation to live.
I find a distraction.
It was art I used my body to draw my anger.
No matter how deep I go I didn't care.
Every night I prayed and hoped that this will be the last night.
I want to end everything.
I want to be happy again.
But instead I pull my sleeves up and use my arts to paint.
When I see my blood start dripping off my arms, wrist, thighs, everyday I find somewhere new to draw.
I feel alive for a second.
But then I wake up again.
My demons wake me up again.
I wake up to that feeling of shame and regrets.
But I can't do anything except putting my headphones on and crying myself to sleep.
The same story every night of my life.
YOU ARE READING
When Depression Kills
PoezjaDepression is like a war. You fight it against yourself while you see everyone around you smiling but you are slowly dying.