Sometimes my depression is a bullet, and I can feel the barrel of the gun press up against my forehead.
I know I have mere moments to escape and so I run, never knowing
whether that bullet will strike and embed itself in me before I can get away.
Sometimes I'm fast.
Sometimes I get away.
But sometimes my depression is a poison, and though I drink from it willingly, I do not do so knowingly
and as it seeps through the pores of my skin and taints my body through, I remain oblivious to its presence
until it has taken hold of me and I have but one choice.
To succumb to the inevitability of my depression.