It’s more than the sadness or the suicidal thoughts. It’s that I’m alone in my own darkness. I’m the girl behind the doors.
Walls are put up and a door is built in. It’s my own personal prison. No one is allowed in because the last time I had guests they burnt my place to ashes.
My place is a sanctuary, for my damned soul, where I cry every last drop of tears out of me until I’m left with skin and eyes dryer than the dessert. Then I try to repent for all my unGodlyness.
I write beneath these walls, I cry beneath these walls, I live and die beneath these walls. Everything I do is beneath these walls.
I’m hit with waves of late night thoughts about boys who stopped loving me, or maybe never did to begin with, and my hero I lost to a war of depression and PTSD. He lost to a war he never even had a chance at winning.
Never violence, never drugs but can I honestly say this is any better? I’ve lost sight of any beauty in this world or any beauty in me. I’ve lost sight of what these trapped walls could do to me; did to me.
I’m strung out on pills that are supposed to make me better but all I feel is them suppressing my emotions, feeding them to the beast. Days go on and I remain in a daze behind these cement walls and I feel the darkness gnawing away at the parts left over from the girl I used to be.
I think to myself, what if these walls aren’t made of cement, just one sided windows, forcing me to see every cracked and shattered piece of me. What if these walls are me?