Depression Doesn’t Care Where You Live

They said my life ended

when I was forced onto the streets.

They said my life deflated like a balloon

when the pressure was too high.

They said it was a shame

that a girl with so much potential

was now throwing life away like trash,

(favouring drugs over a “steady life”).

But my life was trash

before I wound up on the streets.

(I was crying myself to sleep

and letting red streaks

stain my sheets.)

I was homeless even before I had no house:

I’ve always been alone

(a solo soul stuck in a hell).

I’ve always been a drifter

(a ghost abandoned to look upon a “good life”).

I’ve always felt this coldness clinging close to my skin

(no one has ever been there to hug it away).

I was dead before I touched this icy ground:

I’ve always held an endless galaxy of falling stars.

I’ve always felt this unknown pain that runs throughout my veins.

I’ve always had these internal wounds that bleed

(never able to be bandaged).

They said my life ended

when I was forced onto the streets.

But my life has always been over:

I’ve always felt numb,

I’ve always felt lost,

I’ve always felt dead.

The difference is,

is that now

you finally see

just how broken I really I am.

(Why did it have to get to this point?)