My mascara runs down my fair, freckled face as the piercing cries of depression are unleashed out of my pale thin lips. The sound is unbearable even to I. So my sobbing slows as I think of how it even started. My heart is like the everlasting beat of a drum, the proof I’m alive, though I do not feel I am. There is a deep and dark hole that is left in my heart open for infection and screaming for it to be healed, though it hasn’t found its future. I lay on the floor my face wet, broken out, and red. My thoughts indescribable. The pain I feel is no more than the pain you would feel if you were being crushed by the force of an elephant’s foot. It’s like every part of me is crushed, for I am officially broken.