It's 4:25 and i'm drowning in my head, my body aching from screaming silently into the night.

Eyes raw, puffing in their sockets. But all are blind. 

Sadness doesn't retaliate anymore, it courses through my veins, I need it to function.

"how are you"


"you're always tired"

"go to bed earlier"

"it's that damned phone"

But the truth is, I couldn't care for the motherboards i bear in my hands, my heart harbours this ever-growing darkness that doesn't depend on how turned up the brightness is on this screen.

I don't feel anything. A lifeless soul. 

I catch myself off guard and let out a smile,

"so you're happy now?"

"you're such an attention seeker"

Reality is accepting that happiness is a hormone i simply don't produce, distract myself to conceal the cries i am so comforted by.

Distant screams and sirens do not shake me from this comatose state, there is no fear here, no hiding under duvets or jumping at the noise, just relentless fatigue followed by restless nights of wrongful wishing.

It is 4:38 now as i resurface to reality, memories and pain leech onto my skin, blisters on my soul, carved reminders of how i'm rigidly rooted the squalor of my own existence.

A trembling hand to the clammy corners or my droopy eyes,

Ready for the day. 

This poem is about: 


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