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It’s so difficult to describe depression to someone who’s never been there, because it’s not sadness. I know sadness. Sadness is to cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling— that really hollowed-out feeling.

It’s so difficult to describe depression to someone who’s never been there, because it’s not sadness. I know sadness. Sadness is to cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling— that really hollowed-out feeling.

Be the person you needed when you were younger.

I’m always the one who loves more and that scares me the most.

Sometimes people who need help look nothing like people who need help.

I wish I would have spent more time loving myself than wondering why I was never enough for you.

I don’t want to be your sunshine; I want to be your full moon among a sky full of stars, and the drops of rain that kiss your skin in the spring, and your frostbitten skin on a cold winter day. I don’t want to be sweet; I want to be your first bitter sip of coffee in the morning, and the metallic taste of blood when you geg anxious and bite the inside of your lip too hard, and the salty taste of tears when you let yourself fall apart. I don’t want to give you butterflies; I want to give you dirty thoughts late at night, and a smile so wide you swear your teeth will break, and a memory so fond that when everything is over and all of this is done you never feel or taste or love the same way.

I want so much that is not here, and I don’t know how to be okay with that.

You are my bad habit. My disease that I couldn’t cure. My sin that I never felt bad doing. My wasted time that I never regretted wasting. My very tiny deep details that I couldn’t ever forget.

I don’t care what you do to me, but I don’t want you to hurt me. I’ve had enough hurt already in my life. More than enough. Now I want to be happy.