Depression.

You toss it around so casually, 

like it means nothing,

like it is just another ordinary,

unimportant word.

You treat it like a joke.

You think it is funny.

You think it is something 

to be laughed at.

You are wrong.

You have never stared

into the twisted monsters

of your own mind.

You have never stood at the edge

and looked down into the darkness 

and wondered whether

would be easier to die.

I want you to know

what it it is like.

I want you to know

how it feels to press a knife

against your skin and wonder

if the throb of red, red, red

would fill up your hollow heart.

I want you to know 

how it feels to see the helplessness

in your mother's gaze,

the pain carved into her face,

the stained shadows beneath her eyes,

and know that it is your fault.

I want you to know

how it feels to be broken,

ruined beyond repair,

so damaged that no medicine

or psychiatrist will ever

be able to fix you.

I want you to know.