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I keep writing "she" in my poems instead of "I" because I'm afraid of letting people know what's really going on inside my head, of knowing that I am the one who's been in so much pain for so long and not this "she" character everyone thinks I created. I don't tell anyone because then they will look deeper, and the deeper they'll look, the darker the images they'll see. Their curiosity will get them looking and wondering the thing I'm hiding behind the fake laughs. My insanity will be an interest of theirs and not me. I will simply be an interesting story to gossip about.

I honestly can't tell you when was the last time I laughed or even smiled (not even my favorite TV shows or favorite comedians can make me laugh). I only know about the long crying myself to sleep nights. The desperate continuous prayers. Laughing became forbidden, a sin that my mind is refusing to let me commit.

I've been running through this tunnel for so long looking for that light everyone keeps talking about. But the faster I run, the further I go, the longer the tunnel seems to get. I don't see a way out of here.

Sleeping used to be my temporary way out but even that, the sadness managed to take over it. It has taken over everything, became everything that I am. I've lost interest in everything and everyone. It's like I'm living in a nightmare and I know there is no better reality to wake up to. Do you know how that feels like? To be hopeless all the time even when you are not awake? To just exist and not live? To be in pain, to feel like you're slowly dying but there's nothing physically wrong with you? To feel like you are in this world alone because no one can see that you are suffering, no one hearing your cries for help, not your friends, not even your family? Do you know how hopeless feels like? I do. And it's killing every lasting bit of me. (And I don't know how much longer I can hold on)
294

The Doomed—regard the Sunrise
With different Delight—
Because—when next it burns abroad
They doubt to witness it—

The Man—to die—tomorrow—
Harks for the Meadow Bird—
Because its Music stirs the Axe
That clamors for his head—

Joyful—to whom the Sunrise
Precedes Enamored—Day—
Joyful—for whom the Meadow Bird
Has ought but Elegy!
cracks on the wall
copy the cracks in my heart
every time i fall
i'm torn apart

— The End —