Inside.

Maybe that's just it,
this feeling of loneliness,
this feeling of emptiness,
I was born hollow, I was born incomplete,
my wings never grew, I was never born to be free.

Maybe I'll always feel like this,
unworthy of warmth, of hope,
unworthy of any kind of love,
never ending prayers, for everyone but me,
I feel my heart sinking under the weight
of my guilt.

They stare, they seek,
they look for a ray of happiness,
but I'm empty, oh so empty,
I ring of despair and anger,
'towards whom?' They ask,
and I refuse to answer.

I never do, because 'me' is the answer,
how shallow, how self-centered,
to hate oneself so much its force
drags the claws of time across your skin,
the skin of your loved ones.

Nothing stops it, it gets deeper,
it digged a hole in my stomach,
it made me spit blood and stay in the shadows,
so much meaningless guilt and shame,
the winter lulling its slave.

I'm made of fragile skin and bones,
they age, they break and they hurt,
I've never felt immortal, and still the
ticking of the clock resonates against me, tortures me,
finding revenge for being wasted.

I must face it, to change my insides is impossible,
I don't yield, I melt, I disappear,
this day is gone, tomorrow kisses my skin,
to finally bite off a piece of me,
I'm leaving too, second by second I fade,
slowly, surely, painfully.

The pain keeps me awake, I'm aware
that this feelings will never go away,
the light will remain in the sun and the darkness
in everything that hurts who I love,
but my eyes refuse to help me,
what part of everything around me,
of everything inside me, is real?