I can’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant or just fat.

I can’t tell the cashier at Wal-Mart that he is the biggest jerk I’ve ever met in my life.

I can’t tell my cousin that dress does make her look utterly ridiculous.

And the thing I can never ever say:

I can’t tell you I have depression

I can’t tell you why I was so quiet that night

Even though I know the answer

I can’t tell you I used to self harm

Even though I still see every scar

I can’t tell you the pounding of my heart “you’re-stupid, you’re-weak, not-worth it”

Even though I hear it’s sick beat everyday

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about death

Because I have lost count

I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve stayed awake at night, begging myself to sleep

I can’t tell you how many times my heart has broken so much I wanna rip it out of my chest

I can’t tell you about the nights I imagine my empty funeral

Even though I remember each one crystal clear

I can’t tell you about that dark corner of my mind that keeps me awake at night

I can’t tell you that it’s worse when I’m lonely

I can’t tell you I’m not always alone, just always lonely

I can’t tell you about the blood pounding in my skull, telling me to let it splatter

I can’t tell you I have depression

But wait, I have.

You just didn’t listen.