Buried beneath
I’ve been swimming in my depression
like a pool of nurse sharks—
harmless,
yet still a danger.
Every time I dig
to climb out of this hole,
I only sink deeper,
lying now in the grave I’ve made,
too tired to claw my way free.
You come,
but all you see is me lying there.
You don’t see the struggle,
don’t see the ways I’ve tried.
You turn your back,
tired of helping,
thinking I’ve given up.
But don’t you get it?
I’ve put everything into this—
all my energy,
until it hurts.
I’ve tried,
but I’m so tired.
So tired
I just want to rest.
And every day,
a little dirt covers me,
burying me slowly.
When I try to call for help,
the suffocation tightens,
and I’m left there,
left for dead.
I’ve tried,
I always try,
but it’s not as easy as it seems—
to be strong,
to muster energy,
to live.
Even brushing my teeth,
or eating,
drains me.
Caffeine keeps me going
because I have a cat to care for,
a life to live
(or so they say).
But this life—
it doesn’t feel like mine.
I wait for death,
for the grim reaper to whisper,
“It’s time.”
That will be the happiest moment of my life,
when it all ends,
when I can finally rest.
I know it’s selfish,
leaving people behind,
leaving my cat,
but I’m tired.
I don’t want to keep climbing,
only to fall,
deeper,
again and again.
So tell me,
tell me now—
“Hang on a little more,
just try.”
But I’ve tried.
I always try.
