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Every day it’s there, just under the thoughts,
The diluted happiness,
The meaningless, useless attempts
To keep it at bay.
It’s the voice from the hollow nothingness,
Calling out to me.
Beckoning me closer,
Tempting me into a piercing embrace.
Every day I enter my cell more willingly—
Stockholm syndrome for the emptiness inside.
I’ll whisper endlessly on worthless,
Stand firm as my skin is pieced, just to prove
That I’m not weak.

You used to live in this cell with me,
And each day I’d go to stand with you.
Now you’re getting out,
Escaping.
I’ll still sit here, fawning over the dark,
Clinging to the chains that lock me up.
Searching for the strength to simply die.