Sitting in the corner

 

She needs to cry.

She needs to mourn the pieces of her that have died with every painstaking experience she has gone through, instead of holding on to these empty carcasses that shaped who she was before.

She needs to release the anger and the agony that have found a haven inside her skin, dictating their darkness on everything she does, says and feels.

She tries.

She tries to let it out; to cry, or scream, or hurt.

But she fails.

She is overwhelmed by the nothingness of the nothingness within her; by the coldness of the simmering fury that does not rise, but that resides in her like a dormant parasite that has found a perfect home to shelter in forever.

She is now only a resemblance of who she is.

She needs to cry.

But her tears fail her and all she is left with is the painful desire to cry.

Instead, she just stares into the emptiness and preoccupies her foggy mind with trash.

She is a serial killer in the making.