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You will never 'fix' me
so if that is why you stay--
heavy with obligations
repetitive movements,
hanging in the middle
like a balloon losing air--
please pack your life up
and take it somewhere
you'll be happy.
How could I ever love you,
when I don't love myself?

But secretly, I really I do
love myself. I just don't
love you.

I actually enjoy my time
alone, and I like drinking
by myself in the dark,
and dear god, how I love
laying in bed reading a book
without listening to you
breathe.

And I hate fucking you...
the sad foreplay of slow kisses,
and your predictable movements
that are supposed to heat me up
but force me to end up faking it
while screaming inside my head
for it to finally end.

My depression has a name,
and my life would be better
without speaking it again,
but you are still undiagnosed
and only love broken things
because you need to "fix" it all
like a little boy playing doctor
with a toy box doll.