She has no interest
in talking to me anymore.
Like a broken toy,
used, and tossed
onto the floor.
Forgotten and thrown
under the bed;
played with then put away
because to her,
I am dead.

And to the world
I am dead.
I breathe,
but with no purpose.
I do exist,
but without meaning.
I am awake,
yet there's no focus.
And I sleep,
but there is no dreaming.
I am dead.

And she has no interest
in talking to me anymore.
And it's all my fault.
I wish this life
would just grind to a halt.
I destroy everything good
that ever happens to me;
And it's only the sweet promise of death
that can set me free.

I am dead.
Or rather,
I wish  I could be.

It's what you don't say