I have grown accustomed to the way
silence forced itself upon my social interactions
like a guest who wasn't invited
but was let in anyway.

My eyes have memorised the dents
on these four walls
that I could draw infinitely
on maps of this bare surface.

Pencils have worn out,
I'm running low on graphite
so my life decides to turn itself
into the same shade of gray
that I use to write about it.

Books are doors to another world
but their handles have broken,
"Help!" I screamed,
I am locked into this lonely reality.

A social life
filled with ghosts,
blank-faces,
and empty souls.

Nothing to give ,
Nothing to receive.