Empty

Blank sheet of paper.
I cover you with meaningless words.
Just to feel like I’ve done something.
And not feel useless.
Even though I don’t put any effort into it.
Even though it means nothing.
I do it, because
I want to feel happy.
Safe with what I am.
Glad to be where I am.
Yet, I’ll always know, somewhere in my heart,
at the back of my mind,
forever,
I don’t like the way I am.
There’s always doubt.
There’s always fear.
Regret.
Helplessness.
Frustration.
Desperation.
Anger.
Hate.
For myself, above all else.
I don’t let anyone else see my broken emotions,
because they belong to me.
No one else need feel my pain alongside their own.
Even though I don’t speak,
I know to ask for help.
If I need it.
At least, that’s what I believe about myself.
I’m always wrong.
Am I wrong about always being wrong too?
Then what am I supposed to believe,
if anything at all?
If I can’t trust myself,
who am I supposed to trust?
Faith dies if not kept.
Will my faith fade as my own doubt grows?
No one can answer me,
for I don’t ask.
I’m scared to.
Answer myself,
it’s my only answer,
for too many questions.

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