I am empty.
Sometimes, I feel things. More of a spark than reality. I perk up at times. For a moment. For minutes, hours, even. But, I always fall back. Quiet. Calm. Void. I will be so still at times that my fingers and toes grow cold, forgetting to pump it's own blood and be alive. I forget that I have a body. A face. Emotions. I resemble a hard, bland shell, unable to make gestures of normalcy. I wasn't born this way. I was warm and happy, once. I still am, briefly. Kind people tell me I am alive. They see the sparkle in my eyes. I don't know it. I don't feel it anymore. The reassurance isn't completely lost on me, I still have hope, even if I don't have a hope in hell. I forget I exist at times. I feel like I'm watching people around me, sipping coffee and exchanging pleasantries. They have some for me, too. I forget that I'm there. I am startled to remember, I am alive. I am sitting in this very room. They see me. I'm not watching a movie sitting in this chair. I am also not an actor. If I am, I have forgotten all of my lines and I stare back, blankly, waiting for someone to whisper my lines. "I'm sorry." I say and they assure me, it is fine to be a shell of a person and never know what to say. It is fine to just barely exist. It's FINE.
It is not. It is not life.
My fire has died out. It has escaped me. I gave it all away. If I happen to have any small sparks, I just give them out as quick as I get it. I don't want it. If I have it, he'll come and take it anyways. What is the point? I got so used to my wall being up and living life that way that I just am a wall now. This is where I live. If you call it that.
My heart barely beats. I wait for the love I deserve and fear I already have it.
I feel like I can't even talk about it. I try to and the words escape me. How can I explain how my heart has been acting passionately for three decades and I haven't known how full I could feel until I was alone. I would rather lay on my king sized bed, all the way to one side, letting there be so much space that nothing else exists. I had grown accustomed to be that way, trying my damnedest to feel like I was alone because I was always alone and never left to be. I was running on empty for so long that I just remained. I felt so alive and free one year ago. I kept being me, but I wasn't getting it all taken away. I was able to keep all of my love for me. Eventually, I stopped having to run. I slowed down. And now I have stopped. I sat down. I tucked myself into my giant bed. There's enough room for two more adults in this bed. That's how much room I leave. No one lives in this space. It is the most alone I've ever felt. And I'm the most content. Because, there is nothing to take if I have nothing left.
Sometimes, I feel things. More of a spark than reality. I perk up at times. For a moment. For minutes, hours, even. But, I always fall back. Quiet. Calm. Void. I will be so still at times that my fingers and toes grow cold, forgetting to pump it's own blood and be alive. I forget that I have a body. A face. Emotions. I resemble a hard, bland shell, unable to make gestures of normalcy. I wasn't born this way. I was warm and happy, once. I still am, briefly. Kind people tell me I am alive. They see the sparkle in my eyes. I don't know it. I don't feel it anymore. The reassurance isn't completely lost on me, I still have hope, even if I don't have a hope in hell. I forget I exist at times. I feel like I'm watching people around me, sipping coffee and exchanging pleasantries. They have some for me, too. I forget that I'm there. I am startled to remember, I am alive. I am sitting in this very room. They see me. I'm not watching a movie sitting in this chair. I am also not an actor. If I am, I have forgotten all of my lines and I stare back, blankly, waiting for someone to whisper my lines. "I'm sorry." I say and they assure me, it is fine to be a shell of a person and never know what to say. It is fine to just barely exist. It's FINE.
It is not. It is not life.
My fire has died out. It has escaped me. I gave it all away. If I happen to have any small sparks, I just give them out as quick as I get it. I don't want it. If I have it, he'll come and take it anyways. What is the point? I got so used to my wall being up and living life that way that I just am a wall now. This is where I live. If you call it that.
My heart barely beats. I wait for the love I deserve and fear I already have it.
I feel like I can't even talk about it. I try to and the words escape me. How can I explain how my heart has been acting passionately for three decades and I haven't known how full I could feel until I was alone. I would rather lay on my king sized bed, all the way to one side, letting there be so much space that nothing else exists. I had grown accustomed to be that way, trying my damnedest to feel like I was alone because I was always alone and never left to be. I was running on empty for so long that I just remained. I felt so alive and free one year ago. I kept being me, but I wasn't getting it all taken away. I was able to keep all of my love for me. Eventually, I stopped having to run. I slowed down. And now I have stopped. I sat down. I tucked myself into my giant bed. There's enough room for two more adults in this bed. That's how much room I leave. No one lives in this space. It is the most alone I've ever felt. And I'm the most content. Because, there is nothing to take if I have nothing left.
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