I've given up on you.

We used to be so obnoxiously close.
I would have given up anyone,
in fact i did, i gave up everyone for you
for that period of time.
I was your comfort
and to know
that I made you happy
was my comfort.
I loved you, with a chunk of my soul at the time,
it took so long to let you in,
but perhaps it was
the reservation
that kept me coming.

Sometimes I wonder if there is anything
underneath your skin.
You are an onion, whose layers
I've never been able to peel.
A lab experiment, i could never complete.
I can observe you, and make a hypothesis
about how you're feeling, what you're doing
but it's so insanely hard to try to invite you
back into my life
when you've shut yourself off so long.

So truth be told, i don't think of you very often anymore.
It's just every now and then,
when you message me to ask
for my password
or when i'm drowning myself
in the past
when i come across you
that i just get really sad,
because i realize that no matter how much effort i put into you
no matter how much digging
or how many rants i invited you to vent
or how much time i invested in you,
I never really got to know you.
None of us did.

I still wonder, what goes on in your head,
is it lack of motivation, like myself,
easing yourself into depression because
you don't know what's wrong with your brain
or should i know more,
should i worry about you?
Because I do, believe me,
I've spent so much time worrying for you
But i never get anywhere,
and I don't know you, not even in the slightest sense now.
So I'd like to believe
that I've given up on you.
But I know that
deep down i still have that reserved spot in me
that wants to understand you.

One day you might look back,
and you might not remember
how I cracked open
my already splintered ribcage
to give you whatever I had
left inside.
You might not remember
how stars went dim
when we walked in empty streets.
You might not remember
silences that felt too full,
or nights that felt too short.
But please,
please remember;
at least I tried.

How can you fight a war so blindly?
Only to open your eyes to the destruction you've caused.
You know what you did was wrong.
But your words say otherwise.
You don't know how to fix it,
But you won't ask for help.
So you sit in misery with a smile on your face
Waiting for someone to see the pain in your eyes.

I used to spend time
Worrying about
How other people
Looked at me.
              Until I asked myself;
      Is there
      Anyone
      I really
      Need to
      Impress?

Everybody talks about depression as if they know it.
Like they can feel the blood dripping down their skin,
And they know the sick thought of "Oh -- look how beautiful the red is."
(They always say red is my color.)

As if they laid on their bed for hours on end,
Salt tracks lining their face like the scars on their ankles,
Because tears just won't come anymore.
As if they know staring at their ceiling, tracing patterns in the paint
And thinking "Maybe if I stay here awhile longer, I'll go away --
I'll cease to exist" because they're past the point of suicidal thoughts --
Accepting death in life with this hole in their chest and thinking
Death is a reward, an escape from this pain I deserve to feel.

I know depression. The kind that goes unnoticed --
The kind that takes the metal from a hair tie and not cuts --
But scrapes at the skin on her arm, lying on her bed,
Tears not yet dried up with a mother screaming "MONSTER"
Outside of her door.
I know the kind that cuts on her ankles, not her wrists,
Because she's scared she'll get in trouble but she
Desperately needs to be seen.
And never is.

I know depression. The kind that stops cutting because
She gives up hope that she ever will be.
The kind that accepts being alone, that accepts the pain
Like a gift because she deserves it -- that didn't smile for a year,
That went so far into herself that she forgot what connection was like
Not that she ever knew in the first place because

I know a depression that's always been there.
That started some time before the age of 10 but
She can't remember because the monster inside her chest
Stole those years, those memories.
And that monster took the place of every connection she might have felt --
Stopped it, muted it, because it wanted to be her sole companion.
So it was, and has been for 19 years.

And no one ever knew. Or --
They did, but they'd call her crazy.
Demented. Pathetic. A creep. Tell her she had no right --
That because she had a family, a home, money, whatever,
Because of this, her pain was irrelevant.
Fake - selfish - vain - wrong - she hadn't earned it -
So no one cared.

I know that depression.