Depression Will Take Me

Depression will take me someday, not with violence, but with a tired hand that knows my name too well. It will not shout, it will not rage. It will sit beside me in the dark and wait for the moment I stop pretending. I’ve grown used to its footsteps, the way it lingers at the edge of light, careful, patient, almost kind. There are nights I mistake it for comfort, nights it feels like truth. It doesn’t hurt anymore, just hums low beneath my ribs, steady as breath, soft as surrender. People say to fight, but they don’t know how quiet losing feels. Depression will take me someday, not because I want it to, but because it never really leaves, and I’m so very tired of being found.