I am empty.
I am hopeless.
I have no point
I am a coin tossed carelessly into a deep, dark well; I have nothing more to offer.
I have no personality, nor identity.
There is no depth in my spirit.
No information about me exists beyond a Facebook account and a birth certificate, showing the universe that there was, at one point, a being that walked the Earth named Ariel.
There once was a human named Ariel.
There will not be for long.
I am two dimensional; a flat surface.
I am easily moved around, walked on, destroyed.
I am both ignored and defenseless.
Merely an array of colors, lines, and shapes that are supposed to express this ora of mine.
Can this be done justly?
Of course, I am empty.
My tears are not my struggles, they are simply a combination of chemicals to make water.
I have no pain or sadness, only tugs inside my chest to assure me that I am still alive.
I am not an individual bursting with potential.
I am a shell, a disregarded carcass.
I am a waste of skin, full of nerves that can no longer feel.
I have a stomach that is used to lack of nutrients.
I have a brain that is washed out from too many years of complaints, threats, and let-downs.
My heart, my old, dying heart, is desperately trying to make its last few pumps before it gives up on me, just like everything else has.
The last guarantee I have for myself is that death will be a sweet relief, and the world will take a deep sigh and move on without my knowledge.
But even the thought of getting out of this life ceases to cause emotion, because I have none left to spare.
No love, no fear, no anger.
I am worn out.
I am empty.
TheMagicalMermaid