The outside world waiting,
Full of sublime buildings and parks,
As she sits upon the dusty sheets of the bed,
Eyes bloodshot and hurting,
Nights spent wide awake,
Days spent within the confines of a small room.
Her mind has a grip on every part of her,
Until its claws make her bleed,
Until she is forced to face her past yet again.
Sadistic, masochistic, pessimistic,
It kills every moment of true joy,
Because how can such a moment be real?
How can it be real when there is
This and that and another this,
To worry about,
To cry about.
This spring comes not with blossoming trees
And the warmth of the sunshine upon one’s skin,
But with the ability to understand
The manipulative ways of her mind.
The darkness has become so banal, so cliché,
That she can only laugh about it.
Every single laugh is a victory
For her barbaric mind.