This is a letter to all my killers,
You make a pretty good team.
The suffering you've inflicted at the hands of my own means.
Bruised, by the words that depression uses to beat me down.
Starved, by the absence of the self assurance that fear malnourishes me of.
Bleeding, from my back caused by the betrayal of courage that converted to anxiety.
Haunted... by the past that clings to my back like the cyber bully that floods my system with words that my mind cannot erase.
It hurts. It hurts . It hurts.
Your unity, it hurts.
Individually inching me to the edge, collectively succeeding.
It's going to hurt, I know, till the day I feel no more.