Some of us live
lives so hollow 
that our minds are sewn together by
frail little thoughts of
sun rays and green tea
fragile tiny hopeful glimmers that
appear for only a short time
but they are all that keeps us here

Cut me free
from this cage
this monstrosity
that binds my weightless soul
and keeps me here
heavy and chained
hurting
in misery
sometimes I think it may be fire that burns within
but I fear that all it is
is darkness
eating up all the light
inside of me
and the lights
have almost gone out

I need sunlight and
short walks 
and daffodils greeting my step
soft green grass
daisies and bumblebees
wooden beams
laughter
warm mattresses
and a clear head

but what I really have is
cold dark days
hard concrete
boxed in rooms
hollow words
and a blackness where my thoughts should be

I feel a soft warm
sickly feeling in my belly and
it’s not what I wanted at all
but I did it anyway
like always but then 
never at all

Almost.

I feel like it's almost the end. I feel the last threads of myself hanging onto my soul but soon they will blow away with the wind, never to be seen again. I feel a presence, like a black shadow, hanging over my shoulder, watching, waiting. I think it is death.

When I shut the door to you this morning, it felt almost like goodbye: I feel as if I am going somewhere that you cannot follow. My soul is stripped of everything that it used to be. It is nearly raw and blank and untouched; my presence barely lingers on in it any more. I am not here, I am somewhere else. My insides are frozen, my eyes made of glass, and my tears are nothing more than a brief memory passing through me, and on, and out. I do not feel enough to keep you hoping, wishing, dreaming of a past that is hardly even a whisper. I cannot be enough to let you stay. When the last remnants of myself are gone, I will let you go. I myself will then fade into nothingness, and soon after, that presence that I feel; that darkness gathering behind me, will step forward and take me away from this ghostly, grey existence.

I don't know how soon it is coming, but I can scarcely feel myself here. My mind is misty and I don't really see things, they just pass me by, mostly unnoticed. I don't want company. I am alone, and even myself has left me. I have no interests, except a faint enjoyment of photography – some stronger part of my personality clinging on – and every day is made up of time: of counting down hours, of minutes going past, every second of my inconsequential existence wasted.

I should not be here.

Ugly.

I am ugly on the outside and
ugly on the inside
I am ugly to me and
I am ugly to you 


I am a ghost or a shadow
lost inside myself
caught in a web that I have become  
horribly comfortable sitting in and
I’m almost smiling as I’m being eaten alive
I feel empty you see, but so full of that emptiness 

I love you when you’re gone
but I can’t cough it up when you’re around
and it’s not fair because I know it’s there
but I can’t push it from my core outwards
it’s burning in me but my lips are like ice and my body is cold 

and when I’m alone I want you
but when you’re beside me I crave solitude and silence
and I hate myself for every time I flinch and push away
and I despise myself for having no suggestions
for feeling everything and nothing
for not having anything to say
for the hardness in me where I was once gentle
and for the way that I am no longer much of myself
and instead I am endless numbers and fears and anger


I am ugly on the outside and
ugly on the inside
I am ugly to me and
I am ugly to you 
and I am so numb to it all but
I know my heart is breaking
you are everything that I need
but I don’t know what to do