Hollow, just not empty.
She was broken. She had been for so long… She had no one to blame but herself, no sad story of a damaged childhood, no over dramatic twist along her path. Nothing to point her finger at, that people would feel sorry about.
She had no visible scar, no open wound to heal. It made it all the more difficult to mend her sorry soul.
If only her body bled. If only her skin was ripped, her flesh was torn or her bones were broken… They’d rush to fix her.
But her pain was invisible, unexplainable, unreasonable.
“Get a hold of yourself!” they’d tell her, when she tried to open up. There was no reason to feel bad, therefore no reason to pretend things weren’t going right.
And with every new sunrise and sunset, she felt her life was going down the drain. In silence. “Maybe for the better” because finally disappearing would mean not bothering them anymore. She felt like a child, pulling on their sleeve every now and then.
Still, she held on to the little things… Hoping… Hoping for what? Hoping for who? She didn’t know.
Hope was a luxury. The last one she allowed herself.
Hope to find a way to fill herself. To fill the black hole in her mind.