Depression speaks: I’ve no doubts that she’s long grown sick of me, my frigid fingers, the way her teeth chatter and grind when I drag my pinky up and down the knobs of her spine. I stand behind her and grab her hips like a lover would and rock her gently. I pull her back into bed and kiss her senseless; I watch her stomach concave and count her ribs as she leans over the side of the bed, hipbones jutting out, sharp enough to cut diamond. I drink the motivation that runs out of her in a steady stream and close the blinds so she can relish in the darkness of her world. I sit on the edge of the bathtub as she stares forward blankly and nudge my head towards the razorblade, grinning suggestively. I point to the pill bottles on the windowsill as she washes dishes and I spoon feed her bits and pieces of regret and nostalgia until she cannot take me anymore. I wake up one morning, ready to see her beautiful skeleton and find a beautiful corpse. It seems I have the most unfortunate habit of slaughtering my lovers before I’m quite finished with them; without doing so, however, I seem to grow so unbearably sad.