I feel empty inside, like there’s nothing to my life, to my world, to my family. I don’t have a heart anymore; a black fire replaced it, creating a vacuum that’s sucking any contentment. It’s spreading now, singeing a most of my chest. No matter how much I try, nothing extinguishes it. As many times as I fly, I’m sobbing on the ground again.

It’s a dark shadow, which teases me with the light, let’s me experience joy. I spend my time here dancing and breaking free of chains. But then it creeps up next to me, and slowly covers me again. It always brings me back to the darkness, always re-shackles my chains. Its only intention is to allow me a glimpse of the world so it can increase my suffering under its cloak.

There’s anger, but it really isn’t anger, it’s frustration at all my failures. No matter how much I try being good at life, it all comes tumbling down. I always fail. My future only holds heartache.

I can’t act around my friends anymore; no matter how hard I try to fake a smile, the darkness always peeks through.

The emptiness is because I’m alone in this world. My family can’t love me and my friends wouldn’t understand me. The only place I can go is where I don’t want to be, a place hated by God and people alike, a place where I won’t have anybody.

If I choose my to accept my secret, I will be walking out of the sunlight, away from all the bright people I’ve grown to be comfortable with, into a dark room full of strangers. The toxic air will make it hard to breath. I’ll stumble wherever I go, even though there will be no place I’m trying to get to. I’ll be lost, I’ll be more alone, and I won’t know anyone. Only futile attempts to stand up straight, to look around and clear the fog out of my head await me here.

There will be no escape.

I can choose to ignore my secret, and be able to stay in the bright world with the smiles I have grown attached to. But, I will be a demon among angels, pretending everything is okay, but lying to everybody. I will have to be a con artist. Nobody will ever find out who I am. I will not be able or slip up, or relax. If I do, I will fall beneath everybody’s feet, as they will go about their daily business, trampling me, and slowly killing me.

There is only one other choice. But I dare not even think about it. If fake death feels this empty, how much worse will the real one be?

I’m a ghost in the world, trying not to touch anything, only leaving the smallest imprint. When I finally disappear, nobody will notice.