Sometimes you're in a hole.
Where light draws its fingers back and turns its pretty face away.

No one comes around anymore. And no one round here came from here. You don't remember your name sometimes. And everyday, it gets harder and harder to remember.

You wait, expectantly. For something which for the life of you, you can't remember. The voices, people and colors blur at the edges, but sharper when you try to grasp them, cutting, slicing your fingers, mercilessly.

You forget how to breathe sometimes. Let alone scream. So you wait. Doing nothing, but waiting. For someone, something to give you something, anything to to feed on.

Sometimes, a soul walks by or two. Graces pass your hellish existence. And you wait. For their light to rub off against you. For their voices. Their warmth.

But you don't cry for help. You stay here. In this hole. Because rescue is too much of a saintly word. Too saintly for a damned soul like you.

And hope is too bleak for a soul like you.