It All Ends

How grievous is the girl whose claws only strike herself.

Her smile curls only to collapse the moment she finds herself to be alone.

In the world of truths, she is the lie, speaking with a ruined tongue and expressing flourishes with broken fingers,
devoid of passion.

Is there nothing left for me? She cannot help but question.

Is there nothing left for me to deserve? Do I deserve a single pleasure at all? Is there even a single pleasure left?

And why cannot I understand the words that leave these people's lips?

Why am I an alien to feelings of peace?

She chokes on her endless, despondent inquiries and chooses not to breath.

For what is the point of breathing when you take no pleasure in what breath induces?

What then, when you feel there is nothing left to achieve or believe in?

What does one do when eyes have become hard and barren?

Does she continue to masquerade benevolence?

Or simply close her eyes, at long last, and accept the shadows to cradle her?

Tell me, what does one do?

For dreams have certainly gone and been lost.

They did not simply clip the bird's wings, but removed them completely so there is no longer even a memory of flight.

Only pain.

Only the ache to follow an instinct that you can no longer remember.

I dig these masochistic claws into the sky.

There is nothing left of me.