His pillow cries under the weight of his head,
Drenched in the flood of unshed tears.

Her bed, a grave for her barely alive body.

Their plate collapses under their untouched food,
A feast for ghosts who feed on fear.

His blinds untouched, burn from the Sun they struggle to shut out.

Her room reeks from her uncleaned mess,
A monument to all she hasn’t done,
While time slips through the cracks, unnoticed,
She stands frozen—becoming none.

Their clothes, worn from hanging in their closet,
A silence in the fabric—no need to dress.

His blade begs for mercy,
he wonders if it can hear
His skin’s screams to be clean—
To carve away the filth it hides within.

Their reflection cries to be pretty,
they see only cracks and jagged lines.

Her mind prays to be silent,
Yet it’s a storm that’s never kind.
Each thought a blow, relentless and raw,
A ceaseless battle in the mind’s cold war.