I have no power here. No voice. No reason to continue fighting.
I have very little memory, actually, of what it was like to care.
I try to rejoice in my numbness: celebrate the dulled sounds, flat images, and jaded feelings.
The expression I wear is emotionally ambiguous at best,
Though I do not look sad. I plaster on my smile, straighten the edges, and clean up any smudges you might have left behind.
I use drywall to build my body each morning. Carefully construct a pair of arms, legs, *******, eyes.
When everything is finished, my sins are shown as an imperfect body, reflecting my imperfect soul.
I still look in the mirror, look into my dead eyes, and feel remorseful for the girl that could have been standing here in my place.
She may have been beautiful; unfortunately, she had nothing to protect herself with.
Though the process is trying, I know I must do this every day.
I do this every day so I can face you, and your omnipotence, and your destruction.
I do this every day so I can love you.