Why am I here?

Like rapid phases of the moon, I shift under my skin uncomfortably; graze the surface with sharp nails in hopes of feeling some sort of...closure.

Why am I here?

A question I chase into the darkness; out of fear? Fear of what?

Confrontation?

Indeed.

What else would I be afraid of?

Why am I here?

To feel this loneliness, this uselessness pull me deeper and further into the arms of melancholy.

The darkness collects at my navel and spreads out like branches throughout my being, filling every pore and hollow surface.

Why am I here?

Useless, hopeless; that is all I stand for.

That is the definition of my existence.

I just wish I meant something to somebody else.

...Can you help me understand?