Depression

“I’m worried bout you,” she said. I responded with silence. Who is she to want to help? Is it that obvious that I’m dying? I wish she would go Away. She doesn’t need to care. That’s the problem – they all care. Over and over again they’ve said I have to go, But why can’t I just sit in silence And sweetly dream of dying? I don’t need their help. Pitying me won’t help Anyways. They don’t even care. They all know I’m dying, (And they swear they can’t stand my silence) But they’ll be glad when I go. Don’t they understand? I won’t go To that ugly old “help” Center filled with crazy people’s silence. Those people surely don’t care. In that place, everything I’ve ever said Would be used against me to stop me from dying. But who decided that I’m even dying? I can still choose whether I go Or listen to the things said To me. I could take their help And accept their care. I wouldn’t have to live in silence. But I’m scared to leave the silence. I’m scared to stop dying. Oh god… it sounds like I care. Maybe I don’t really want to go. Maybe I should take the help And listen to what’s being said. I’ll admit I care, but I won’t go. But in my silence I do want help. “I’m sick of dying. Help me live,” I said.