They laugh.
I cry.
It's almost as if pain is who I've become.
It's rich throughout me,
And I can't breathe.
My eyes open,
But I can't see anything at all.
It's bleak.
There's a window in my room,
One concealed by drawn blinds,
But I know that if I just pulled those blinds up
There would be sunshine;
A blue sky with birds, and flowers.
I can't feel my legs.
I can't even bring myself to walk over and feel the warmth on my skin.
I can only crawl.
But it's so slow and tiresome that I just lay with my back to the floor and eyes on the plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling.
I feel better after writing my feelings down,
But the sadness never really goes away.
It just becomes more manageable to me, at least until I inevitably feel unwanted again.
I think I've cried an ocean by now.
Or a river, at least.
I'm so drained from it.
What's the point of being alive?
What's the point of breathing anymore?
Do I really need someone else to jumpstart my heart to make it beat?
I am broken.
My sharp pieces cut everyone around.
I'm not suitable to be used anymore,
So just throw me away already.
