I think sometimes I can hold the weight of the world.
I convince myself that my cracked bloody hands can hold onto the edges just a little bit longer.
I say to myself that my world is not slipping through my fingers as of right now.
I tell myself just one more second, then another, but the world gets heavier and heavier.
And I get weaker.
Maybe it’s the depression that tells me I can’t do it, or the anxiety shaking me with doubt.
It doesn’t matter anyways, I’m slowly losing my grip, and soon,
my world will fall.
It’s hard when you have mental illnesses, but you got this. We all do.