29 September 2012
Half of what I say is meaning less and less
Half of what I think gets put down by my fears
Half of what I love is leaving my life
Half of what I am is dead.
I'm dying.
Always lonely, but never physically alone.
Feeling empty in a crowded room.
The anxiety grows.
The pain is starting to show.
Crying myself to sleep.
Blood soaked towels and empty pill cases are all I see.
Why can't you accept me?
XLVIII • Opuss № I