Because it feels like it's all empty inside, and all my words are worthless to the cruel society and world. They turn their eyes away- cover them with those hands that could have taken my life- from all the good things I've done; and focus all on the terrible things I can count that I did. And all I feel now is a spiraling blade cutting all corners of my already-wounded heart. Plastered and sewed, it's like a horrible piece of cloth, except that it's my own. I think that these creatures only love themselves, and as I tried to curse myself with a knife, I could only stare in disbelief. I wasn't the type to do this. My hands were for my loved ones: to hold, to promise, and now and always, to protect.

When dawn comes around, just a single tear would be shed. The rest are uneven from all the maelstrom of emotions I could barely feel. Maybe I've grown immune to it, maybe the pain subdued or increased into a numbness I couldn't possibly hold on to. Like walking on a thread I couldn't see, my gripping to nothing, and I could voluntarily give up. I would. A few days from now, I might be watching from the above, or perhaps looking up on this world because such a person like me wouldn't make it to the Heavens.