That’s what I am on some days – I may even venture to say it’s who I am on some days.

It’s a dull, empty feeling, and in these moments, I’m void of emotion.

My face is slack with unintentional apathy; my body is uncoordinated and weak, as though I have hollow bones and muscles of wet paper.

Easily broken. Easily torn.

On these days, neither my body nor my mind are my own.

I am, instead, a trembling ghost of who I was before, held prisoner within the walls my own personal hell.

I lay helpless and weak, like a distressed damsel on a silk-strewn bed,

When I’d like nothing more than to be the hero, and slay my captor on my own terms.

Instead of words rising valiantly from my lips, they catch in my throat and choke me silent.

But I have a story to tell and I want to scream!

I fall into an exhaustion sleep cannot fix – it’s not that kind of exhaustion.

It’s a vast abyss filled with the long-since dead pieces of my soul.

The loss of time leaves me breathless and self-loathing –

They tell you to make your time meaningful, but how can I when it takes the most time to dress this corpse in a smile?

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