Do you like me?

No? I don’t either.

I remember the day I was first told to love myself, but that’s simply something I cannot do. My depression holds me back.

Depression? Are you there?

Because I purchased the bottles of pills you recommended; we’ll have to see if they’re as sweet as you say.

I wrapped the belts from my closet ‘round my neck, and they seem to fit perfectly, like a snake whose malice holds me captive in a paradise of misery. And the sinking anchor in my chest weighs down my heart, drags it past my stomach and takes that too, until I cannot help but to regurgitate the broken heartbeat of my self esteem in the form of previously digested food that I just don’t seem to deserve.

Later I regret it, shunning myself for breaking, and remind myself of the consequences.

But it’s okay, Depression. You reassure me every time.

And often I felt a scratching at my wrists, a scratching at my thighs, that I cannot seem to identify. Could puncturing my skin, this layer of protection, slicing through it and leaving ragged ribbons of me behind.. Could doing that make the scratching go away?

I don’t know.

So I’ve begun wearing jackets, covering more and more of my soft flesh, until I suffocate beneath the remnants of the sunken city of emotions within my chest.

No, I do not like me.