Depression is the perfect lover - forever attentive, protective of its capture with bone deep loyalty.

Much too deep for you to reach between my thighs, although you said you’d fill the hole inside of me.

On bruised knees, I begged for all of your hatred, your anger, your pain, your heartbreak - what is one more millstone around my neck as I drown - or maybe, am baptized, in your dirty, soaked through, mistake ridden, motel linens?

But, you were on a suicide mission to find a love I’ve searched the world for - under strange men’s hands, under fluorescent lighting, under the influence.

I tore open my chest and gave you the bits of me that are a bit more raw - wearing my vulnerability like lingerie. All bloodied and beautiful.

Because love can be bought in crumbling alleyways - in a city that isn’t your home - with ten dollars and a moment of your time.

But, it isn’t going to comfort you, in the time between - goodbye and sunrise.

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I am wondering about the last line.