I like it when my depression is sad. This is the ideal way to be ill. Numb nights and days you can’t remember become comfortable and that is why it is so vicious. My suicidal thoughts would be ideations if I wasn’t so damn tired. 

This is the genre of crazy that authors, published or not, can romanticize. The fluffy-haired emo boy with sad eyes will always make girls swoon because your struggle is not real unless it can be marketed.

You will try to sell your soul to the first bidder because you just need it gone.

It feels like it is night and the sun will never rise again, but you like that it’s peaceful. You’re glad that you feel like you’ll never be happy again as it feels like home

Because what is home if not the place where you know you’ll never be happy again?