Have you ever felt empty, but not sad?
I am hollow, made of hollow bones.
I am decrepit oil paint, I am decomposing energy.
I am a whisper of italicized print, with the intensity of bold print.
I am the lightning in a storm, a withering thing.
I am bleach, sadness, poison.
Don't love me, I am infected, I'll **** you slowly.
Don't sit here, next to me.
Alluring? Hardly.
Poetry? Basically.
Depression? Definitely.
The pills don't help as much as they used to, I'm dying.
Rotting on the inside, you say life is a privilege.
But I'm not living, so please help me.
Sorry, but I feel like dying, killing myself.
Smoking, drinking, cutting.
I can't help it, anything to take the pain away, the pain of being me.