Icy tendrils choke my heart,
I wish I could stop shivering.
I lay motionless under these covers
trying to silence my mind
trying to stop these tears
trying to understand
what the fuck is wrong with me.
Maybe if I search hard enough
through the barren wasteland
(that is my heart)
but it's like a blank sheet of paper
nothing there
no feeling
no memory
no existence
formidable in its emptiness
I have been living in a fog,
stumbling blindly toward
the illusion of light,
erasing myself along the way
until I'm left with an empty page.
There is much space to be filled
with my words.
I have yet to write a new beginning.
I am the author of this story.
