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I sit on the corner ledge of the rooftop building, looking at the world below carry on.  The chilly wind whips my firey red hair about my face, obscuring my view from time to time, making my eyes water and stinging my skin.

It’s the first time I’ve felt anything.  I have become numb, empty, a husk, a shadow of my former glory.  My eyes are empty and hollow.  My smile is fake and forced.  My voice is empty and deadened of emotion.  My touch is dulled and I never really know if I’m touching something or imagining what things felt like in my once tactile grasp.

No one knows the emptiness that is within, because no one wants to really hear the bad things.  No one wants to see how hollow I’ve become and that I am only going through the motions to “act normal”.  

I don’t sleep well, because the emptiness weighs me down.  I don’t eat because I can’t taste the food and it makes me nauseous.  I sleep too much because it’s easier than living with the nothingness that is inside.  I can’t stand to be around people as noise sounds like a freight train barreling through my ears, yet the quietness of solitude is deafening and suffocating.  

The weighted blanket of despair pulls me ever more slowly further down into the chill of the blackness and waits with bated breath to engulf me.  

I stand up on the corner ledge of the rooftop and wonder if I really have the balls to just ever so slightly lean over and fall, and hope I will once again be warm and happy and free.  I am shattered inside, shards of my soul pierce my once indestructible exterior, showing them my weakness.  

My eyes are empty and hollow.  My smile is fake and forced.  My voice is void of emotion.  My soul is wounded and broken.  I am wounded and broken.

And as always, no one sees me as I suffer alone in a crowded room.

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