My life is like the twin towers. Destroyed and a horrifying sight to many. But, unlike the towers, no one mourns its utter destruction but me.
There are no flowers laid at the pit which is my living death in remembrance of the woman I once was. There are no calls to rebuild me. There is no comfort. There are no tears or moments of silent prayer for the soul made waste.
And as there are no tears for my life, there are secret shouts of celebration overseeing my endless humilation.
Don’t think there is much goodness in the world. I know there is not.
