My dreams depress me.
They're so warm, and wonderful,
and full of all the things that I desire
          so much
That every time I wake up,
I am slapped in the face
by myself, by my own memories
          my own desires
All the things that I want so bad
that they plague my every moment,
waking or asleep
Dreams are no longer an escape for me,
but instead the opposite:
they bring me back, force me to see
all the things that I want to get away from
but can't help but return to
because of this need, because of this want,
because of this helplessness,
and the inability to do anything different.