when I understood it as weapons

Sometimes my depression is a bullet, and I can feel the barrel of the gun press up against my forehead.

I know I have mere moments to escape and so I run, never knowing

whether that bullet will strike and embed itself in me before I can get away.

Sometimes I'm fast.

Sometimes I get away.

But sometimes my depression is a poison, and though I drink from it willingly, I do not do so knowingly

and as it seeps through the pores of my skin and taints my body through, I remain oblivious to its presence

until it has taken hold of me and I have but one choice.

To succumb to the inevitability of my depression.