It's Like Trying To Live Inside A Box

I've been drinking too much, trying to fill the emptiness that's been drilled inside me. I've been sleeping too much, trying to give my life some kind of release, some kind of break for the echo that rings where my soul once lay. I've been eating too much, because I have no self control and I really just want another reason to hate myself. I've been bleeding too much, because I need a way to get out the hatred that boils in my heart for the reflection that I see in the mirror and the voice that I hear in my head. I've been smoking too much because I enjoy destroying myself from the inside out.

I used to be passionate. I used to enjoy things. But now, all those things that used to fill me with purpose have been reduced to the same level as everything else. Dull and eventual and something that will, in some way, cause me to hate myself and the world even more.

Drying tears with an
old handkerchief
and drinking the third 
cup of coffee
from the same mug
without washing. 
Brushing dust
to the floor
and leaving caps off of
pens.
Wearing the same pair of jeans
for the sixth day
in a row,
not bothering with
an umbrella
when it's raining down buckets.

--Andria.