Mostly I’m sorry
that you met me
in the middle of a
depressive episode.

Congratulations.

I’ve been hurting,
on and off and on,
and I’d be lying to you
if I said I’m not struggling.

I’ve dragged you to my shit
in some desperate attempt to
feel significant and understood,
without explicitly asking for what
I need.

What did I do to deserve your attention?
Why can’t I just accept it—
instead of craving it
and denying my worth
at the same time?

You’ve found a head case,
and I’m so goddamn sorry
that I can’t just talk to you
like a normal person.