why is it that
every time I get home
from interacting with other people
i feel exhausted?

it makes me feel like
they took all my soul and happiness
i succeeded in faking,
and now i want to end all of this.

it's a mindless cycle;
i fake and fake all of what i could give,
and by the end of the day, i'm gone;
used up, and fake it for another more day.

being home completes the cycle.

whenever i feel empty,
I try to evaluate myself,
much like how a student evaluates
the questions before skimming for the answers.

fill in the blanks,
the tiny crevices made by sadness,
the cracks and gaps of loneliness;
help me and fill them out with human company.

fill in the blanks;
sheets of paper, empty,
an untouched screen, the faint humming of a computer,
the pens and pencils, neat and free from human activity.

fill them in; draw and draw until your mind begs to stop;
write and write until the words don't make sense;
I've been trying to do so much
just to make sure that gaping hole of pure, slow, and excruciating loneliness and depression gets temporarily covered.

I've been trying to fill in the blanks in my life since day one.
It seems like it'll never work.

Why is it that whenever someone tells me
to speak up about my problems and open up to them,
all of a sudden, they just become this
uncrossable barrier, so difficult to talk to?

Why does it feel like
they never really meant what they told me
when they said,
"I'm here if you need to talk to anyone"?

And for the past few months,
it has been increasingly lonely.
I don't want to disturb anyone
whenever I want to talk to them.

remember
how the sun barely peeked into his apartment,
the way your curious face greeted me,
the way his entire apartment was ours for a few hours.

the way you held on to me,
your hands around my waist,
your head slightly tilted, just barely resting on my shoulder,
and before we knew it, we were sprawled on his bed, basking in each other's warmth.

the way you stroked my hair,
telling me everything might not be alright,
telling me I'll find someone like you, probably better,
telling me to find someone like you,
but you're the only one like you.

telling me to move on,
telling me to be happy,
telling me to find someone to love;
i guess we both know we'll only be happy if it weren't us.
i guess we're never really meant for each other.

My vision, slowly losing focus,
the bright lights fading into
bright circles,
the world eventually fading away.

My hearing, drowning in the silence;
oddly enough, there's a
loud buzzing, screaming,
telling me to stop.

My breathing, quiet, sniffing every now and then,
the movement of rib bones going up and down,
the feeling of a knife tracing my chest,
the way it poked me and made my heart bleed.

My mind, my heart.
Filled with feelings, yet almost none left for myself.
I'll always love other people,
but there isn't enough for me anyway.

What's the whole point, then?

I tried suspending a heavy object
from my ceiling,
testing a hook ***** I found
lying around in my room.

As soon as it fell,
I took some superglue
and squeezed it onto the *****'s threads,
hoping it'll stick into the ceiling well.

Superglue advertisements often endorse
their superb sticking ability;
let's see,
can it properly hang me?