At moments in life her will to live is weak,
but so is the urge to end it all.
She wants little, but gets nothing.
In a place where the words "I love you,"
are flung around carelessly,
there is no love for her.
At night, she lies in her solemn bed
and cries herself to sleep.
During the day her curtains are drawn.
Her bed is occupied.
Trying so many things
to rid herself of the depression that is consuming her,
she has been almost everything:
druggie, sex addict, friend, loner, thief, partier.
It all worked for a while,
but now none of it has an appeal.
what she really wants is love.