The only sounds are the clicking of keys and the hum of the heater.

I am hot. I am cold. I don’t know whether to bury myself under the blanket or throw it off completely.

My stomach aches, but I don’t want to leave the cave of my room.

It’s a shelter. But I don’t know from what.

Nothing can shelter me from my own mind.

The only lights are from the bright laptop screen, the orange glow of the small heater and TV. The latter I never wanted. The middle I begged for.

I also see the glint of the screen on the ceiling fan. I know it makes noise, but I can’t hear it.

Solemn.

My phone lies there, nothing more than a black paperweight.

It does not sound, it does not light up.

I feel mocked.

The voices that do not reach out to me, stay in my head.

I can hear them perfectly, in the background on a loop.

Their tones exactly as the ones that pass their lips.

It is a cruel power to have.

I feel mocked. By the universe that created me and the supposed god that kept me here.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t know where I want to be.

But you can’t exactly be nowhere.

I don’t have the dedication to be nowhere. The commitment.

I wonder if my musings are true. 

Am I really only here as a promise to others?

Left drained when my purpose for them is sucked dry?

I claim my name. I shout it from rooftops.

But sometimes I want to throw it into the river.

Watch it bob as it flows away.

I could change it, scrub the word off my skin.

But I know it will follow me. It is burrowed into my bones.

It stings. But as when I was young, I try to enjoy the sting.

But it was never the sting I enjoyed. Nor the blood.

It was the scar.

It meant something to me. I still don’t comprehend what it is.

But still, my name lies as a scar, amongst the others.

I look back.

I look to the people who I gave to. The ones who took willingly.

I also look at those who I forced to accept what I gave.

Perhaps none of them knew what would happen.

Maybe they also thought they’d keep me forever.

But it seems like no one can. It seems like I have to keep going.

Down the river I go. I can’t fight the current.

I don’t want to be swept away. But I can’t reach the banks on the side.

I can’t grasp the tree limbs hanging down.

I get pulled back under for moments at a time.

I always come back up. Choking on the shock.

Sometimes I don’t want to resurface.          

But I always do.

The river water on my face replaces the tears I cannot shed.

It is not that I do not want to cry. Simply that the tears do not come.

Even if I do, it is brief.

Choking on the few warm tears that make it to my pillow

If I cry, I cry alone now.