Sometimes you wish that someone would reach out and hold you. Tell you that everything will be OK, whisper that they love you, and say that it will all work out in the end.

Of course, they don't. They can't see that there is something wrong, or if they do, and ask, you don't know how to tell them that there isn't really anything wrong, there just isn't anything right either. You don't know how to explain that you feel numb. That you hate it. That you hate yourself.

It is hard to admit that you despise yourself, the shell you've become, the void that you are becoming. Harder to admit that the only thing that hasn't broken is your mind, and that the thin thread of sanity is only being held onto out of sheer desperation. . . a shaky grip at best.

So you have your Desperation, and the fragile hope that someone, somewhere, will break into the monotony of the life you are only half living, and save you from yourself. Unfortunately, You don't know how to let them in, because once they have broken through your walls of defense, they have every weapon they need to destroy you. They KNOW. . . and it scares you.

And so you continue. . . holding fast to your hope, and the dreams of a better tomorrow, slashing at your existance with the jagged blades of self-loathing. ALONE. And when the beast within you wins, you realize that deep down you have enjoyed the burning sensation in the pit of your stomach and the complete detatchment with which you view the world.

And every night before you go to bed, the child within the person you used to be battles the Terror that dwells inside the person you have become.

And every night, you cry, and for a moment you don't remember that you have to get up in the morning.

And every morning, you succumb to the beast within.

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