by Megan B
It's sad when you finally realize how you feel. No, how you are. Having depression was a feeling. Crying every night and hurting, was a feeling. This isn't a feeling. This is sitting alone in a dark room, pushed far back into the corner, a curtain draped around you, but you can tell the monsters are out there; hissing, clawing. They want to make you bleed.
But they never stay around to watch the blood drip.
It's sad when your soul is just gone.
When you want to cry, but just cannot. The tears don't come. Because nothing in your life is worth crying over, yet you feel it is.
You want that release of emotions, for the headache to disperse.
In the darkness, all there is besides a chilling draft, are painstakingly long days, drawn out by meaningless jabs from stupid people; people that like to see you hurt. Monsters hidden in makeup and gorgeous masquerades that drag you in. You dance and play and parade with them. And you turn around for only moments before being jabbed in the back with a sharp stake called Reality.
And you go to the Darkness and heave like you're crying; dry tears.
Everything in your body aches. You wish they were like the emotions; numb.
Anything would be better than the cold Darkness––with its slate gray, freezing stone flooring and blackboard walls. Dusty chalk particles etched onto them; frolicking symbols, spelling out words, each one like a knife in your heart.
The monsters laugh.
No. Not anymore.
They need to know what they did.
They need to watch me bleed.
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