I’m sorry that one day you’ll turn over in the mornings and I won’t be there because at 5 AM I decided I needed more drugs. I’m Sorry that when you talk to me my mind will be so distant that I couldn’t tell you what you just previously said to me. I’m Sorry that when you hold my hands they will be frail and weak from hitting and missing veins. I’m Sorry for getting angry at you when you realize a week has passed since I’ve eaten and you simply just ask if I’m hungry. I’m Sorry that I’m forcing you to fight for my love. I’m sorry that you might not win. So leave now while you can because even just one shot is that consuming.

If I ever overdose, it was on purpose.

You can’t keep dancing with the devil and ask why you’re still in hell

High-functioning depression is a slow-burn, invisible but powerful. I can be all the things everyone expects me to be. At the same time, the fire inside will eventually consume me, if left to its own volition. These kind of fires—unhealed wounds—will never die without the acceptance that I’m not capable on my own. It’s a battle to be fought with an army. Through our typical days here, when I find a moment of solitude within, I see the acceptance of the real version of me—the one not buried by the depression.