I don't know why I'm sad this time,
why I'm depressed and contemplating ending it all again.
It's become a companion over the years -the black dog that I never knew
in my reckless, blissfully-ignorant youth has become
a sort of comfort, in an odd way.
Maybe it's because the knowledge of the eventual
apathy that will come and dull the ache of empathy
and compassion is a soothing balm.
Maybe because knowing that when life gets too tough,
and things too confusing,
there's the familiarity of the all-consuming sorrow and lack of self-worth or confidence
that will come to save me from the things that I can't comprehend or reason with.
Most days, I feel like a horrible person for feeling this way,
for having anxiety snag a ride on my left
and depression on my right.
I don't feel worthy of the love and compassion of my parents and family and friends,
because it's not enough to save me from myself.
Well, it's not as crushing on my psyche and physical vessel as it was the