Hey, Depression, My Old Friend

You always try to get the best of me—

to take the last laugh,

to rewrite my thoughts

until they sound like yours.

You whisper that I’m weak,

that I’m late to my own life,

that I should know by now

you never really leave.

Battling you isn’t easy.

You know that.

You know every fault line,

every night I doubted myself,

every fear I never said out loud.

You wait until I’m tired

and call it truth.

You wait until I’m quiet

and call it surrender.

You think persistence makes you powerful.

You think showing up uninvited

means you own the place.

You mistake familiarity for victory.

But listen to me—

I am still standing.

Even when my legs shake.

Even when I’m angry, exhausted,

done pretending this is fair.

I push back in ways you don’t see—

by getting out of bed,

by choosing to stay,

by refusing to disappear

just because you asked me to.

You knock me down,

and I get back up pissed off,

breathing hard,

learning my strength the long way.

You don’t get the last laugh.

You don’t get to finish my sentences.

You don’t get to decide

how this story ends.

I will overcome you—

not cleanly,

not quietly,

not without scars.

But I will.