The rusted mailbox
creaks as it’s pried open,
dented door dislodging.
Two yellow balloons
tethered to its post
and bobbing in the wind,
stark color against a slate sky.
The bomp bomp of the balloons barely
heard over the wind’s whistles.

Empty inside.
It’s Sunday
after all. Too easy for you to forget
the day when days
amalgamate into one
long moment. Stuck in an
everlasting condition,
waiting for the day
when your mind
at last
is quiet.

A quiet
that comes when your hands
are busy. Too
distracted by tasks to
dwell on thoughts.

just another name
another faceless "crazy" behind a keyboard
one that isn't even crazy.
not like the others.
no.
she's just sad.
lazy.
incapable of living.
better off dead.
even the small cries for help get lost in the void.
with only echos of "just end it" coming back to her.
she cuts into her flesh
taking pieces of herself away
and the others don't even care.
they let her keep carving ridges into her arms
why?
because she's not really crazy.
not depressed.
not suicidal.
she won't **** herself.
she's not important enough to help.
she doesn't need help.
she's not crazy.
just empty inside.
using pain to push back the darkness inside of her.
push it down.
keep it away.
cut deeper,
and deeper,
and deeper,
she reaches out again.
maybe she is sick.
no.
she's alone again.
ignored again.
she cuts again.
and again.
again.
again.
again.
again.
keep going.
"just end it"
there's no point reaching out.


not when there's no one there.

I'm empty inside
No one can See
Through the flesh mask
They wan't me to be

I am just a useless body
With a useless mind
In a useless world
Offending it's kind

I'm a defect, used by this world
It's useless for me
I should be gone
So something better can be