Broken

That bench is where she was found...

The bench creaks beneath my weight and although I can't feel my fingers I can tell there are tears streaming down my face. It's cold here. About as cold as the world has been towards me, who gives my all and still has to live with defeat. I can never win. Somewhere in the distance I hear a cars horn but I can't make myself manage to let this numbness go so that I too, can go home. Where is home? Where is my heart? Where is my hope.? I can barely think straight to make myself blink, the blurred trees is all I can see and the moons light shines down. Where is someone? Where is my love? Where is my hope? I reach blindly to my lap and barely even register when the blade slices my fingertips. Numb from the cold, I lift the bloodied hand to access the damage but no amount of blood or dismay can swag this feeling of hopelessness in my heart. I wonder if I can manage to put the blade to my wrist. So slowly I attempt to do just this, sit and let the blood drip all over my favorite pair of jeans. What does it matter how I look if no one cares for me? Slowly but surely I can count my heartbeats they come shallow like my gasps and suddenly I feel again, I feel pain, I feel the hatred I feel the anger, I feel... Alone.
I am alone.
And that is how I will die.
And with the blade in my bloody fingertips I wonder.
Will I be alone forever?
Will I ever have anything to call mine?
My razorblade is mine.
This pain is mine.
I am broken,
But these pieces are mine.