Scattered.

Stars still shine because the light from their corpses is trapped in time.
So what the hell am I wishing on.
This is trying to come to terms with the pieces left of my sanity, slowly scrapping the marrow of bone until it drains through my scalp and leaks an awful mess on the pavement.
All the while I walk in the ruins of my silent world, pages of my whispers fluttering from my fingers, cries of help too late.
Here the screams are commonplace, the knives never clean, the scars never healed.
We do not feel as we do not know how.
But know we never asked for this.
No one truly knows what it means to be crazy until they become mad themselves.