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There's a hollow in my soul that waits to be filled.

Everyone has one,

Waiting to be filled

By Love

By Money

By Power

By Life.

I'm different.

My soul waits for Death.

I'm sick, inside. It's what I am.

I've always known.

The mood swings, the inexplicable anger,

The inescapable despair,

Brought on by nothing.

I don't like what I am, but I don't know how to change.

I'm not strong enough to change.

The hollow in my chest sends disgust crawling over me.

I don't hate myself, I just don't care enough to hate.

Some people guess, some even come close to the truth.

I can't ask for help because I wouldn't take the advice.

The idea of suicide was planted in my mind long ago,

Now those seeds flower with every bad day

The yawning chasm under me gaping wider as I scramble for sanity.

I've always been this way.

I can't blame it on the abuse, or on my mother's death,

I can't blame my upbringing.

It's what I am.

Not quite anything.

I won't kill myself, simply because I don't want to hurt my family.

But I have to wonder, is that any reason to live?

If I did, people would miss me, they'd wonder what finally drove me to it.

But they never knew, they can never know.

Only the world of strangers that I send these words to,

Only you will ever know, know that I'm not what they think I am.

I can never be who they want me to be, who I want to be.

Maybe if I did die they'd know. Maybe they'd finally realise.

They aren't ignorant, or uncaring.

But I've been hiding so long, I've forgotten how to be honest.

Even death would be a lie.

The future used to terrify me, but not any more.

I'm not afraid of what's to come.

I just don't want a future.

I can honestly say that death holds more appeal than life.

Or maybe I'm just to lazy to face up to myself.

I know I'll change my mind. I'll cheer up without knowing why,

And wonder why I'm always so damned melodramatic.

But even on my happy days, I DON'T WANT TO LIVE.

Life was thrust upon me, just as I was thrust upon the world,

Without warning, without permission.

I'm living for all the wrong reasons.

The weight of responsibilty is borne on my shoulders.

It bears me to my knees over and over.

I'm tired of getting up.

But I imagine my death, the shock, the disappointment I'd leave behind.

I don't want that.

I don't want to have Ann, the aunt I love, discover my cold corpse.

I don't want my grandparents to sit at my funeral, like they sat at my mother's.

I don't want my family to explain to the children what has happened.

But, still, I don't want to be alive.

I can't hurt them.

So I'll just continue my existance,

Hurting myself in a thousand little ways every day.

No way for them to help, no way for them to know, no way for me to escape.

It's ironic, really.

If my heart was torn from my chest, the hollow in my soul would finally be filled.

I'd finally be complete.

Can you live without Love, Money, Power, Life?

What fills your Hollow?

I hope you find it.

Me, I can't really live, until I die.

Sounds lonely, doesn't it?