A hand pushes me in the black
whenever a ray of colour dares to appear in my eyes,
even in my happiest moments
I feel its touch on my spine,
it sets worries on my forehead,
a hand designated by my inner demons
to keep me restless.

In the echo of my laughter
you can still hear the voice of my angst
eating me alive.

A hand wakes me up at night,
painting nightmares under my lashes,
pulling my muscles,
breaking my bones,
digging in my flesh with its sharp claws;
the ceiling pressing my face,
I die a million times and still it is not enough.
it never stops.
.
My mind hurts,
heart beats too fast,
cracking up my weak veins.
Paralysed
I scream and cry,
afraid of the next nightmare,
I hope one day I will be able to hide.

*In the echo of my scream
you can still hear the leftovers of someone
who once wanted to live.

a sponge can only hold so much water
a canvas can only hold so much paint
your eyes can only hold so much sorrow
before it starts to spill and make a mess

She became such an outcast,
An outsider;
That she started to detest everything common.
She found everything muddled up in a cliché:
A cliché she refused to follow,
So it was in that, perhaps, that she could gain her destined mystery.
She felt that she creates too many imperfections
Out of pure self existence,
But of course she continues to exist anyway.