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I Want You to Know
Depression.
You toss it around so casually,
like it means nothing,
like it is just another ordinary,
unimportant word.
You treat it like a joke.
You think it is funny.
You think it is something
to be laughed at.
You are wrong.
You have never stared
into the twisted monsters
of your own mind.
You have never stood at the edge
and looked down into the darkness
and wondered whether
would be easier to die.
I want you to know
what it it is like.
I want you to know
how it feels to press a knife
against your skin and wonder
if the throb of red, red, red
would fill up your hollow heart.
I want you to know
how it feels to see the helplessness
in your mother's gaze,
the pain carved into her face,
the stained shadows beneath her eyes,
and know that it is your fault.
I want you to know
how it feels to be broken,
ruined beyond repair,
so damaged that no medicine
or psychiatrist will ever
be able to fix you.
I want you to know.
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