a woman
appreciates a man
that can penetrate
her mind
deeper than her body.

i fill myself up with liquor
only to find that i'm still empty.
people fill me up with expectations & every time they fail
they pour a portion of my soul out into the gutter
& i'm still empty.
lovers pursue me with sweet words & fill me up with dreams of a perfect romance & when it ends my heart breaks, spilling out the few drops left of my soul,
making me emptier than before.
i nourish friendships using the substance from my soul
only to watch them dwindle & die leaving my soul substance-less
& i'm still empty.
i write this poem with the hope that maybe, just maybe it can make me feel whole again but
i'm still empty.

— @beeyroyce.

being dead inside is a paradox.
a contradiction. polar opposites.
you feel nothing at all, but at the same time you're feeling something.
there are no intense emotions yet, feeling so dead inside is an intense emotion in itself.
you're comforted by the fact that you won't feel any bad emotions but
at the same time, you're dissatisfied because you won't feel any good emotions either.
being dead inside is great when your lover leaves you, when your friend dies, when everything comes crumbling down at once ... because you won't feel it as much.
being dead inside is terrible when your lover tries to kiss you, when your friend invites you on a vacation, when everything starts coming together ... because you won't feel it as much either.

there are different types of drunk.
i remember the one where i was jumping around and dancing,
oblivious to my suffering.
singing along to song lyrics, having them hypnotize me as the alcohol flowed deeper
into my bloodstream.
it was almost as if i was high but i hadn't touched any ****.
happy, happy, happy, was all i could be.
happy drunk.

then there's the drunk where you're clutching a bottle of alcohol in your hand.
sitting in a corner, with bloodshot eyes.
crying, you're feeling all your suffering all at once.
crying along to sad lyrics, having them accentuate your sadness and
remind you of your depression.
it was almost as if i was cutting but i hadn't touched any razors.
sad, sad, sad, was all i could be.
sad drunk.

you treat yourself like a wounded animal.
you’re drowning in your own blood,
demons rather.
your wounds fester & rot & your demons escape & drown you.
you don’t know why you got shot or why you deserve such pain.
you don’t know why you got caught in the headlights.
so you wallow in a pool of red, your demons.
as they taint your skin crimson
& leave your soul hollow.
you live life on the ground
because reality’s a hard pill to swallow.
you’re waiting to be put out of your misery.
you want to die, to end it all.
or you’re waiting for someone to come along & pick you up, poor wounded animal.
someone to stop the bleeding, fix up your wounds & make you okay again.
you’re waiting for someone to make you whole.
you’re waiting for someone to stop your demons from drowning you
but you’ll be waiting a lifetime drowning in your demons waiting for someone to throw you a life jacket.
we either wait or we die…
or we save ourselves. the lucky ones, i suppose…
it is said an animal would rather bite its own paw than die in an animal trap.
we who save ourselves, crawl away from the car that hit us. take out the arrow that hit us. bite off the leg that’s caught in the trap so we can survive.
we who wait for someone to save us end up bleeding to death.
& those of us that want to end our misery either do it, or live our entire lives wishing we had.
survival instinct… bite off your paw to save yourself from the animal trap for none can save us but ourselves.