A Den for my Demons

Third Journal Entry

When depression knocks at my door, I usually ignore it, but when it finds another way in, I am left with no choice but to let it pester me. It strangles me with its hands, as I moan in anguish, incapable of knowing that I am slowly dying.

Sometimes, depression brings its friend — Anxiety. Both feasting on my body, my crimson blood cascading down their chins, my limbs torn by their sharp canines, yet I am still incapable of knowing that I am slowly dying.

I tried to drown those two, but those bastards learned how to swim; I also tried burying them, but they had learned to get up from their graves. I began to tire, so I let them eat me, yet again, I am still incapable of knowing that I am slowly dying.

With both killing me little-by-little, I stare into the mirror that’s facing me, I see my eyes — dark as the abyss, the remnants of who truly I am, the fragments of who I was; damaged, but not broken.

I’ve sought answers to these predicaments, some suggested a noose, others have said give up, but then my eyes showed me a face, a reminder of why am I still here, a face that looked so familiar, a face that looked like me; dead, but still breathing.