Unsteady.

I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m so fucking done with everything. I’m so fucking tired of faking this bull shit we call happiness. It’s so exhausting. You have no idea. No one has any fucking idea and I’m done trying to explain.

I’m fucking consumed. I’m consumed with myself. I’m consumed with helping others. I’m consumed with making things perfect. I’m consumed with not fucking things up. I’m consumed by my illness.

That’s it. Right now I’m consumed by my illness. Fuck depression.

 

“If you love me, don’t let go. Hold, hold on. Hold onto me. ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady.”

 

 

One thought on “Unsteady.

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