Again I find myself sitting in this lonely room,
listening to the empty echo of my own thoughts.

Day after day the same routine:
Get up.
Conceal yourself.
Go to bed.
Repeat.

This machine is fully functional,
yet lacks a definite purpose for existing.
It only takes up space.

This loneliness I can bear no longer.

I run to get the nearest blade.
It is rusty and old.
As broken as my own dreams.
I hold it shakingly between my fingers.
I draw a crooked line upon my wrist.
Before I know it, ink is gushing out of the wound.
It keeps on pouring until it leaves me dry.
It floods pages upon pages with words,
with phrases,
with verses.

These same pages remind me of wounds long healed.
Of the struggles I've been through to end up where I am now.

The pages tell a unique story.

My story.