I walk out of my bedroom to see an empty living room. Every morning I wake up to an empty house, an empty bathroom, empty kitchen, empty car, an empty self. I flick on the tv, the only sound that's in this empty place. I haven't said a word in five days, but nobody notices. I haven't slept in four, showered in three, brushed my teeth in two, or ate in one. Nobody notices. Work calls me for the seventh time. I think this is the final call. The call that tells me I'm fired, the call that tells me I have no future, the voicemail that makes me cry. My work calling is the only calls I get, my boss texting is the only messages I get. This is the only attention that exists for me. Anger. Everyone is so angry all the time. They lash out on everyone and everything, happiness doesn't exist, and when someone talks about something sad, something that's true, that exists, they get pulled down more and more instead of lifted up. Those who seem lifted up, happy, are just hiding a storm inside. A sea of tears they deny, screams they never let out, and thoughts they wish would die. Are they strong for keeping their sorrow inside? Painting this face of happiness, a voice of encouraging lies? Am I weak for crying at night? For frowning during the day? For telling people who I am and what's inside? I guess I need more practice faking my smile, laughing a tune of maskful cries, because when I do, everybody tells. Or maybe I just spent so much time telling the truth to everyone that any happiness, just seems like a lie. Which is true, but maybe I want to be loved, maybe I want a call, a friend, maybe I want strength, even if its all a lie. Because loneliness is too lonely but happiness is to happy, and I just want to fine. I turn off the tv and lay there on the couch. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe I will laugh, maybe I will cry, maybe I'll decide what to do with my life. But right now silence is what exists, and my mind is my devlish friend. Flipping through all the thoughts of yesterday, scenarios of today, and hopes for tomorrow. I smile. Even if I see nothing worth smiling about. Because I want to be different. I want my dreams to come true even though I don't think they will, and I want a new perspective. Even if realism is the only perspective worth having in this illusion of life. I sigh, I don't want my demons to come alive, but they cry, they scratch, they ache to be let out. They scream for my misery, they tear my insides apart so they can remember what it's like to be alive. Though, it's not hard for them to escape. I don't exactly lock them away behind a steel gate. Because even though they bring pain, they're my only friends that play. Yet, they also leave when I take the poison flavored fruit handed to me by pure hands and ink. I feel like a casket when they leave. But yet, nobody notices me. I float like a ghost, people put their hands inside me, pray for me, revive me, but they don't notice me. Nobody notices me. Nobody ever notices me.