And she knows how pathetic she must look;
running in that never ending circle
always chasing the people she holds dear.

She knows that her meager attempts at bettering herself
will never bear fruit
and as she trips over the lies she tries to keep up;
but she never does.

She finds herself numb, so sick of everything
and knowing how stupid that is because that would mean
she’s taking what she has for granted.

But all she wants to do is curl up into a ball and sleep,
her dreams are so much more amazing than her life
and she feels more alive in them than she does out here.

She’ll smile blankly, say something ignorant,
and know that she isn’t half the person she wishes she could be.

That never ending optimism that sometimes she finds
slowly sifts away through her fingers like salt
over those open, open wounds.

What is it that she finds so lacking?
Why does she feel that she doesn’t even feel anymore?

To carve on her skin like an open canvas, so high school
and immature
but she finds herself engraving deeper and deeper
thinking maybe if more blood shows up that means she’s more alive
and not in this comatose stagnancy.

And she knows that she will forever be addicted
an alcoholic, a druggie, the relapses aren’t ever far behind.

She tries to find things to entertain herself with
when in reality now she’s happiest when she’s drunk and alone
and doesn’t have to think about anything.

But as the euphoria of various substances subsides
the downs are getting even deeper
and as her heart pounds loud in her ears
telling her to keep going
she has such a bleak outlook upon the things she knows will never happen.

She will never love, outside of friendship,
she will never trust, outside of kin,
she will never really find all those dreams she tricks herself into having
and one day all those people will inevitably leave her.

It’s tragic, this girl.

Sickly pathetically tragic.

I wish she wasn’t me.