This life exists— but it doesn’t feel worth living anymore. I stare at nothingness as my feelings turn hollow. I feel void— empty.
I lay still on my bed, the four corners of it seem to widen, taking the space like a hollow outer space that grows infinitely.
That emptiness makes me feel smaller, smaller and smaller by inch— like I’m the last one living thing on an empty universe and I see nothing cause everything is so far away, every planet,
every star is slipping away from me and all that’s left is darkness and that darkness buries my dead living body in a pool of nothingness but silence and the absence of
its sound kills me— slowly, like there’s still a billion years left for it to spare me. And that slow-pacing torture has sadly become my shelter.
But on the other dimension of that universe is something that is filled with my exasperation— my anger towards something— someone.
For years that woman has made me weep, all those nights I wept my self to sleep. Her words are like icy sharp knives darted through me.
The words thrown are oozing with my blood, soaking my bed, taking my life away. For years it made me hard to move, her presence has turned me into someone I never expected I would be.
Her existence took the old me, ripped it into tiny pieces as I watch fragments of it slip through thin but heavy air— and now they’re gone,
some are lying on the floor and some have flown away to a place I could never go. And all that’s left is dead.
I submerge into desolation, I bathe in it. It knows me— every cell-living thing, every fibre in me, every single part of me.
I blamed that person for making me into someone nobody wanted to turn into; a person who fears living, who dreads the days to come, a person who breathes but all is dead.
But realization will somehow hit you back, a kind of perception I never knew I would be surrounded.