Words float through the room,

but she can’t hear a thing.

Her mind has been overridden by darkness.

Demons constantly clawing at her self esteem.

An ungodly, emotionally draining exhaustion

has fallen over her like a blanket draped over a bed.

But she tells everyone she’s okay.

“Everything is fine. I’m telling the truth!”

She really isn’t.

She is hurting,

hurting so much she can no longer feel.

An empty and numb corpse is all that she is.

Longing to feel something

she snaps a rubber band against her wrist

because razor blades are too intimidating

, and she doesn’t want to be judged

for something she can’t control

or a few lines on her arm.

The number 1-800-273-8255

is a contact on her phone because

she can’t even trust herself anymore.

She can hear all the mocking voices of her classmates

inside her head spreading rumors

about her as she sits under the covers

with tears running down her cheeks.

She walks into class and her stomach hurts

but she can’t tell if it’s just butterflies

about a math test

or her crippling anxiety that someone will see that

she was too tired to wash her hair

to put on a nicer outfit than her baggy sweatpants

that she was too tired to talk to anyone.

She was terrified someone would find out that she was mentally ill.

So, all she says is,

“I’m just tired, I was up studying too late.”

But every day she gets up and battles her demons.

Because though she may be empty,

she forces herself to put a mask on.

So that nobody knows how black

and blue her soul is.

So that nobody knows

bad she’s hurting.

So that nobody knows

she is empty.