A chaotic void
of black emptiness.
Left with endless
loneliness—

Yet, you’re not alone…
A monster lurks
within insidious shadows,
crawling through your
brain like insects.
The disease spreads,
memories fester,
oozing pain as
your heart expires.

It dwells inside
the cracked mirror,
where your own
reflection despises
the weakness—
loathes the “sickness”
it cannot unsee…

Oh friend,
I’m “sorry”
I pretend to
be your ******
court jester for
those who
worry too
little.

Emotional chemicals
burn inside.
The air’s tighter,
but I sing out
in laughter,
speak in jokes,
riddles, and rhymes
so you hear me.

I put on a **** show
for the audience,
only to have you
never see me—
not even me.

A white cup of
black coffee:
a psychological
routine for zombies,
slaving away in
dark, cubed offices
of self corruption—

lives drained,
never energized
enough to love
their creativity
of oneself.

The irony of
what I just said—
I care for those
who willingly
****** themselves.
I beg on my knees,
pleading you to stay,
saying how much
I’m scared
to lose you.
I don’t want
you to go away—

Yet,
I never cared
about wanting
to die myself

Throughout my life,
it has been a conundrum.
I wait for someone
to numb the bitter.

The problem is…
Asking for support
or wishing you’d stay—
makes me feel sick.

I’m afraid you might think
I treat you like my therapist.
Seeing me decay as I watch
you walk away.
Pacing through the asylum,
clipboard in hand
as you stand there.
Listening, writing
down the things I say—
except how to
save a patient.

And that,
is the oldest
conundrum
to exist.

You said you
would be
"dead"
without me?

Well then…
why are you
still breathing
in my head?