My Depression and my Anxiety are in an epic love affair.

They do majestic flamenco dances filled with passion,

as they run into the other, with the intention of killing,

and end up falling in each other's embrace.

They are the fantastic duo,

a masterfully fatal cocktail,

as each touch between the two

is a civil war within my brain.

My Depression holds me hostage,

as he ties his ropes around my wrists and ankles,

and sits on my chest.

Some days the ropes are made of spider webs

and I can push him off,

but most days,

they are weaved of steel.

My Anxiety watches in horror as I am tied down,

and to motivate me,

pours roaches into my bed to dance a tribal ritual down my spine,

and screams that if I was really bothered by this treatment,

I would just get up because,

some days,

he likes to pretend that he’s the good guy.

Sometimes, the two make peace with one another,

and they devise the different ways they could kill me.

Anxiety is sadistic,

and likes to toy with the various buttons I apparently have on the back of my head.

His favorite one is my homework and Depression plays along by giving me special glasses,

by which make me feel that, were I even to touch my bag,

I’d collapse a bundle of nerves and Anxiety would have me all to himself.

I’m not sure if Depression knows this,

but his glasses mess up my vision,

like somehow, the way down from my tenth story building,

really isn’t all that far,

I’d probably just sprain something.

And sometimes,

the dosage on the bottle of my painkillers,

has suddenly multiplied by five times the amount it was

when I checked over the weekend.

And sometimes that makes sense to me because,

if I took enough the first time,

it wouldn’t hurt as much as it does now.

My Depression and my Anxiety are fantastic duo,

as they fall so deeply in love,

its destructive,

but the only one destroyed is me.