Blank expressions.
Empty, fading words.
Brittle and
meaningless actions.
Without pain,
I would feel nothing,
and that’s not living.
Regret,
scruple, faltering doubt.
Have I done enough,
to be loved?
Or to be pitied?
Hoping I deserve more,
but I try not to think
about that.
To love is to be loved,
faltering, I still try.
My wordless apathy,
driving, exiling
my connection to this
world.
I can’t go back.
I can’t.
I.
