"Depression, is a good lover", said Kait Rokowski. I didn't deny. Its heart is filled with you. On days when it visits, I lie bare on earth wanting it to consume me. Like Sita did. It crawls in your bed, looks you in the eye, and you die. A million deaths. On such instances, I want to call my mother and tell her that I cease to exist. That something inside me has snapped. But I stop at the fear of seeing her sobbing childlike face. I wonder who will raise her. I wonder if she'd be childless or parentless.
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