Lifers

by K.C. Blume

All I want to do is lay in bed. That’s all I’ve wanted since the lows hit. It’s my safe haven, my comfort place.

Death is a dreamless, smothering warmth. It’s the most protected I’ve felt in years, and it’s all the love I’ve been searching for.

I prefer to stay awake into the night anyway.

smoke igniting my lungs is the only thing that makes me feel something besides the despair and depression

I don’t make good decisions. Neither does almost everyone else, I’ve learned.

The narcissists always say their birth flower. The innocent choose carnations. The humble, peonies. Lavender is for those with trust issues, and daffodils are for the shameful. I chose sunflowers when asked and for no reason at all.

The love bombing, the pet names, the subtle touches, and the eagerness to take care. I eat that shit the fuck up every. single. time.

Regulating your emotions doesn’t make you sane; it just makes you a better actor.

I was content in my little hole. People think of depression as this cold, lonely place inside of your mind, but it isn’t always. Sometimes, it’s warm, like an electric blanket. It feels like sitting inside of a cottage in the woods, curled up next to a crackling fireplace with a purring cat sitting on your lap. It’s nice for a little while because it’s familiar.

I felt everything all at once, all the time. It never stopped — until it did, and I haven’t felt anything at all since.

I’m good enough at hiding the reality that I’m breaking inside; what I fear is the outcome when those pieces finally fall apart.