her bipolar shadows cast across a dim room,
reveal the compulsive obsessive’s veil.
and her ranting and raving of contrary fib tales,
make sparkles of vitriol from the gloom.

she’s a shadow of nobody, rarely acknowledged,
never more than her consonants and vowels.

and her life’s mirror, when observed,
shows nothing looking back.
no solace or beauty to be found.

just a bitter, shrivelled, disconsolate shell of –
what may have been,
that basks in a bile of its own.

and the far off pin points – of the outside world,
are lost to her apathetic grasps.

reason, her anathema,
begat by incidents of her far and recent past,
make her alone and a long time blind;
inhabiting dimensions that are dark,
as she forsakes the problems of the self,
to indulge her twisted joy.

to her there is only her and no one else,
that is cognisant of the world.

and in the room she never leaves,
she smiles as she pulls the blade from its clasp.
to meld it with the skin on her neck,
drawing a motion that is her own.

slowly her giggles turn to a rasp,
the lights in her eyes going out.
as her vision of her inside world,
becomes nothing more than a wretched dark.

finally, crystal sounds, she once heard,
change into a bleak fading drone.
and she hopes once again,
someone will find her lying there,
in the place she has to call a home.