I wrote this poem in an attempt to feel better:

I want to go back
to when I never had these thoughts
but then,
was I ever really innocent?

melancholy
has always been my
closest friend.

these insistent ideas
visceral images
are so much a part of me
but still they are hard
to accept.

so much time spent
waiting for the end to come
so much dread
and so much longing

but I am not its suitor
I do not wish for its hand
we are brief lovers
meeting breathlessly
in the middle of the night
but I don't sleep over

I wonder how it might look
the morning after
would it be triumphant,
having captured me at last?

that is why I never stay in the same place
for too long
I will not give it a chance
to know me

I will not give up.
It will not win.
Not while I can still write
my own story.