The muscles in my face
Can they atrophy from lack of use?
It seems that my heart has
Not strong enough to feel
Only to produce a beat.

For the first time in years
I long for my own bed
Don't touch me.
Don't look at me.
It costs too much.

The void left inside
It's taken too much of me
I've crumbled away
And the tide leaves no trace.

I am numb.
I use my writing as a journal of sorts
To catalogue my emotions
At pivotal moments.
But there is nothing to organize.
I suppose
This will be my last entry.
What is the point?