There's something in the air
a gut feeling
a familiar heaviness in my chest
the tightening grip of depression slowly constricting me
like being swallowed alive by sticky tar
I find a sick comfort in it
and I hate myself for that
I hate myself for many things

Many of which are irrational
but when you only see in black and white
it's impossible to see your true colors
when all you've known is darkness
you adapt to survive without light
but you never thrive

sometimes I like to let go
to answer the call of the void
to sink into the tar
to stand right on the edge and look down
but I never take the plunge

It helps me gather myself in difficult times
it quiets my thoughts
it haults everything in me
then I can decide
do I want to keep fighting?
do I want to keep living?
do I want to give myself a chance to thrive and not merely exist?
or do I want to die

I hate myself for many things