I have no will of my own,
It was destroyed in this place you call a home.
You ask why I don't answer or talk,
Because when I do, to you, it's always wrong.
My radio is always on in my room,
So I can cry without being heard, by you.
There isn't much left inside me,
But the pain, the guilt, the self-blame, and the small piece of hope that refuses to be crushed out but instead flickers in and out slowly till it decides to disappear.
There's surely no reason for me to be walking, or writing,
Or breathing.
So tell me when it is late into the night why I hear,
"I promise you, I promise you
Someday it's going to end.
I promise you, I promise you
You will be happy again."
Damn it hope . . .
