Tell Me

He says he looks in the mirror
And he can't tell anymore
Who he really is and who they believe him to be
And he says he walks a thin line
Between what is and what could be
He's getting closer
To something he can't understand

I want to know. I need to know. Tell me. I want to know. I need to know. Tell me.

A string of words, becoming a mantra in his mind, but he doesn't notice. I want to know. I need to know. Tell me.

Nobody tells him anything. He can ask one time, 5 times, a hundred times, but no one will answer him. Rage bottles inside of him, but he doesn't let it go.

They're all puppets, everything is set out. But he tries to be different, anyway. They all have their routines, doing the same thing everyday. He breaks his own everytime. It's a small choice, but it could make the difference.

Tell me. I want to know. I need to know.

Sometimes, he screams. He screams when he thinks no one can hear him, but everyone does, every single time. He screams loudly, not really screaming any words, just an "Argh!" repeated over and over and over again.

Nobody talks to him anymore. Sometimes he looks at himself in the mirror, thinking he might've become invisible. But why does he still see himself reflected in the mirror?

I need to know. Tell me.

Bruises on his legs, cuts on his arms. He cuts himself whenever something memorable has happened. Another death on his part, another member on the other. His arms have become archives. If he wants to know how many death there has been already, he counts the horizontal cuts.

More cuts join the others each day, and he knows one day he'll cut too deep. He doesn't fear death, only being just another person. Another cut on somebody's arm.

But he doesn't want to be special either. He wants to be himself, but he doesn't know what he is anymore. He wants to be special in somebody's eyes though, but not because of what he's done, or hasn't done. Only be loved.

Tell me.

The world around him is growing darker with each day and night that passes. Sometimes he doesn't know whether it is day or night. There aren't any sunrises or sundowns anymore.

No more time for romantic escapes outside, falling asleep in somebody elses arms.

But he never had that, did he? So he won't miss it, when it really is gone.

He doesn't care anymore. He likes the dark, and wants it to become darker still.

And one day, he gets his wish. Six more deaths that day, six people he knew oh so well. He cuts to deep with the last one, and though he never had the time to admit it to anyone, he did it on purpose. It felt so good pushing just that little bit further and waiting untill full darkness surrounds him and he finally can let go.

I want to know. I need to know. Tell me. I want to know. I need to know. Tell me. Not anymore.

And far, far away, another cut is added to somebody's arm, in full rememberance. No tears are shed, because this was the way it was supposed to be after all.