Poems of A mentally ill person

I want to get worse

Who am I without my depression
Without the black hole tearing my heart and the eyes growing all over my plump body?
I've gotten used to the uncomfortable thorns tearing through my back tying me down to my bed.
The pain of drying your own tears, cleaning up your own blood, sticking your hands down your throat to purge away the guilt.
They were the only feelings which stayed.
It's all become my home now.