It used to be so easy,
because when I was younger
I actually had something to say.
Now I am a half dead person living in our half dead world talking because there is nothing else to do to fill the silence I carry in my chest.
When I read my diaries they always talk about
the voices in my head—
and I’m almost envious.
I haven’t thought something tangible in days.
I wish I had a voice to talk to.
I miss going crazy.
It was something to ******* do.