I sit here on the cold, hard bathroom floor
Aware that sunshine would cure most that ails
In brain, I know it's chemicals, no more
In body, I'd say end at head or tails
I'm fairly sure I'll make it through the night
Tomorrow, likely, this whole mood will lift
This bathroom isn't warm or bringing light
And yet I can't convince myself to shift
I could reach out, I've got friends, and they're great
If I could make my fingers type the text
[A lie right here, like "too much for their plate"]
Too late, depression's sitting on my chest
I think I could escape this being me
At cost of one flight booked to Italy
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