I know you think
that my depression is all I am,
but it's not.
It just swallows me whole,
like flames in a forest,
burning hot,
yet I don't die,
though I'm consumed
with no goodbye.
I try to fight,
but some days, I fail.
Other days, I let it trail
through me, like fire,
so vast,
there's no escape—
it's spreading fast.
Then I push it down,
again and again,
drown it in shadows,
hide it from friends.
You'd think I'm fine,
all along,
but deep down, I know
I'm barely strong.
It rises again,
a breath of air,
the fire's back—
it's everywhere.
And I'm still here,
burning from the start,
lost in the flames
that grip my heart.
You don't see it.
No matter how I explain,
you won't feel the weight
or the constant pain
of steps too heavy
to take each day,
or eyes that can't open
to face the gray.
I know others have it worse than me,
but in those moments,
I can't see—
I'm just so tired,
I want to be free.
I pray to be taken,
but I'm left alone.
With more struggles,
more to atone.
The hole gets deeper,
no ladder, no rope—
I'm trapped in darkness
with no hope.
I want to be happy,
to stand, succeed,
to say,
"I've conquered every need."
But deep down—
I'm not fine.
I hide it well,
my smile a perfect line.
I laugh,
I shine,
so no one can see
the fire inside
still burning in me.
It screams when I'm alone,
but I promise, I try—
still fighting the flames,
still reaching for the sky.