A year ago I thought nothing could get worse

It will get better- After all, it is January the first

Underneath the bedsheets, I cried and cried

Silence is fine- After all, it is better than to confide

How was I to know that all I had would fray at the seams

Unraveling, unspooling, like my unspoken dreams?

Why can I not ignore how I feel?

How I feel such a crippling loneliness that writing will not seem to heal

The inspiration- the will- to birth characters upon the blank pages begins to disappear

Like all my friends who are no longer here

Slowly drifting away from me until I fear

That the end of me is near

What happened to the huddled figure who forgave those not deserving of forgiveness?

Is she the equivalent of her dreams- easy to dismantle and dismiss?

Did she die when the silence became so unbearable that she became it?

Or was her dream of a better world stripped, much like the innocence she lost as a kid?