The quiet

Depression weaves himself around me like a second skin, whispering the sweetest nothings into my ears at night.
He kisses my head and caresses my skin, leaving behind a trail of a sadness so fierce that even he can no longer stand the feeling of utter and complete numbness.
He brushes his lips against my face in the sweetest ways as he eats away at my soul.

He whispers the darkest things into my lungs, so that when I cry they do too,
And my when the crying stops and the numbness welcomes us, they welcome him too.
And it is a perfect silence then, because depression is all of me, all my innards and my skin.
He is everything, all of me; both innards and skin.