Hopes, scattered across the floor,
a sink full of dreams.
I want to clean up,
but I don’t have any energy left in me.
I start each day wishing things would go differently,
and spend the nights in my bed, scrolling mindlessly.
I don’t walk past the mirror — who I see there haunts me.
A scream stuck in her throat,
but she cannot voice it.
I’d voice it.
I would, if I could, for her.
At the top of my lungs, I would shout,
on days she would cry her eyes out.
For her, I would rage and be loud,
burn it to ashes before she burns out.
Rip away the smile she wears in the crowd.
I’d erase every story of her self-doubt.
Tell her she has nothing to worry about.
Even her messiness makes me proud.
I wish I could…
I wish I could love her and keep her around,
save her from slowly fading into the background.
For her, I’d create a sacred ground,
where her thoughts could pierce, and her echoes rebound.
She didn’t have a voice,
she never made a sound.
Yet what she said next made my heart pound:
She said “Between us, the difference isn’t profound,
You are a walking dead And I’m just a ghost who in your inaction drowned.”
