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I am the voice of depression. I am the whispers of self-loathing. You hate yourself. You feel it. You should be destroyed.

I am all consuming. I infect everything. I’d say that I’m a demon but that’s absurd. I’m a chemical imbalance. I am years of hiding in dark spaces to escape a raging father. I am his punch on a nine-year-old jaw.

I’ll swallow all hope. I’ll topple your dreaming. I’ll smother the love of them all. I’m an infection deep in the sore parts of living. I fester.

You may feel me in your stomach, mostly. But don’t try to pinpoint me. I’m in the ether. I’m a shadow. I am a scentless smoke. I’ll blind you and leave you weeping.

I’m the voice -- the mocking whisper -- of a major depression, and you can’t hide from me any longer. I see you. I know you are worthless. I know how pathetic  you are. Let me explain it to you some more.

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