My Grave

I used to to wonder why people drank or smoked.

I use to wonder why people would want to slowly kill themselves.

I used to wonder how someone could slice a blade across their skin and watch the blood run down their arm like a crushed rose. 

But I stopped wondering "why" when I became one of those people.

No, I never did anything other than drink, drink until the only thing in my mind was how to function my feet.

I finally understood why, It isnt for attention, its an escape.

You get to this point where even the most irrational dreams are still better than reality. Where you'd rather slice your wrist than let someone's words cut you open as if you were a frog and they were the student. 

You become tired all the time and you begin to hate the good things in life because they seem too cheerful. You begin to push everyone away because you're afraid that your depression is contagious and you'll infect them.

What you don't understand is that it isn't.

Depression is not contagious and you can't push people away because then who will help you?

You're important too, you're strong but even the strongest of people need help. 

You've dug yourself a grave and sat in it. But, have you read the tombstone? it does not say your name, that hole you're sitting in it isn't for you. You know this deep inside because every time you looked up to the sky, you saw a hand ready to help you climb out of the mess you're in. Every time you almost beat it, you could hear someone whisper your name. You only have to stand and reach for that hand, so that someday you'll be okay once again and you'll be stronger for trusting that hand. Because that hand belonged to a person, a person who never gave up on you no matter how broken you were, no matter how deep you dug that grave.