• The process of grief is just now starting to heal all of my broken bones. I’m safe now, safer then I have ever been. Inside these walls, these plain walls, it all stays hidden deep within. If walls could talk, these would speak of sorrow, agony, heartache….things that no one would care to listen too. This is where I fall in, fall into depression, and only opening my eyes to the color red.
    After this pencil is dull, these pages finally written, I’ll burn every bit of it to the ground. My memory, secrets that only I can express in my stressed mind, this is what I have decided, to tell my darkest hours, my loneliness.



    My mind is completely blank as I write this for you as I’m in hell, writing and writing tell my hands turn blue, aching, burning, bleeding and only for you. “Are you listening to me yet? Can you hear me?” I ask these questions trying to ease my mind, trying to meditate and stop the crazy thoughts that pour out of my soul, my red environment, like blood, that fades into the night, into the walls around me. I want to stay in the darkness, in this place of heartless pain, solitude….Hell. But what is Hell exactly? I think Hell is the absence of hope. So many questions out there and no one without a single answer for me. I’ve always longed to feel the warmth, someone to love me for who I am, someone who would understand me and my bipolar disorder. Where are you?