Smooth warm tendrils wrap around me like the softest fleece to touch,
I keep sinking deeper and deeper into the essence of drowning,
In this soft, tempting place.
“Come a little closer,” they say, as the tendrils wrap around my hips,
Swallow me up in the fabric,
In the shame.
“You’re so tired,” they say, as the eyelids grow heavy,
And your body grows heavy,
And your job grows heavy,
And your social life grows heavy,
And your relationship grows heavy,
Until there is no more to left to pin you down.
“You’re so considerate,” They say, as you stop talking,
You stop walking,
You stop moving,
You stop fighting.
“You’re mine.” They say, as everything envelopes around you,
Until you have nothing left to be.
And you wonder when you ever became theirs in the first place.
Maybe it’s when you cried after being yelled at for the first time,
Or when you broke your first dish.
Maybe it’s when you lost your first family member,
Or your first relationship.
Maybe it’s when you started poking your stomach,
And you cried.
Or maybe you don’t remember.
Because they have always been warm.
They have always been inviting.
They have always been welcoming.
They’ve always agreed too.
And before you know it, you’ve stopped fighting it.
Why? Because depression is who you are.
It’s not a monster.