The walls of my room no longer speak to me

The walls of my room no longer speak to me, Since I stopped painting them with my blood. Once, they were alive with the pulse of my essence, Each stroke a testament to the silent screams within, A canvas of raw emotions, where my soul unveiled itself. In the quiet of the night, when the world slept, I poured myself onto these walls, a scarlet wallpaper, A dialogue between my inner turmoil and the silent witnesses, The room, a sanctuary and a prison, held the echoes of my pain. Now, the walls stand mute, cold and indifferent, Their once vibrant stories faded into a haunting silence, The blood that once flowed fervently now lies dormant, Leaving behind a void, an emptiness that swallows sound. I wander through these halls, a ghost in my own life, Seeking the voice that once spoke through the walls, But all I find is the painful memory of my retreat, A heart that has grown weary, a soul that has ceased to bleed. The room, once a living entity, now just a shell, Holds the memories of a time when pain was my muse, When every drop of blood was a verse in my tragic poem, And the walls were the pages where my story was told. But in this silence, I find another kind of sorrow, A melancholic acceptance of the void left behind, The magic of my suffering now a distant echo, A reminder that even pain, in its intensity, can fade. So I stand in this room, with its silent walls, Reflecting on the passage of time and the quiet within, Knowing that the voice of my past will not return, But finding a strange peace in the silence, A melancholic magic in the absence of my blood's song.