A heart worn thin, still standing,
held up by wages and routine,
racing to seem put-together,
starving for praise, chasing the sheen.

I mend these wounds in silence,
behind walls that never speak.
I laugh where echoes answer,
longing for death each fragile week.

The days slip by unnoticed,
time erodes what made me real.
Even the mirror looks away,
and shadows flee what they can't feel.

In this room that breathes but hollows,
every wish sinks and dies.
What remains is just a vessel—
a pulse that lives, but never tries.