Empty.
To say the least,
Not a sliver of myself remains,
I do not care about anything,
Except not to hurt my family,
Which is why I am still living.
A shell,
Emotionless but for pain,
Living but for not,
Having nothing to give but my shelter,
An ear to hear other’s troubles,
But never voicing my own.
I dare not hold a knife,
For fear of hurting myself,
Of not being able to stop,
Not being able to think about the consequences,
The mess I would leave behind,
Because though I don’t know why I live,
That would be unfair to those I left behind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a bit gloomy, but whatever the emotion is, if well-expressed, it makes a great impact.