I don’t own myself anymore. No one can see it, but I have chains all over my body; it’s no longer mine. I’m looking everywhere, searching on every corner, but I can’t find it — I’m lost. Lost. They got inside and stole everything: my tenacity, my freedom, my heart; even my (in)sanity. Now it’s empty, it’s all gone. Each and every part of me belongs to someone else — someone else but me. I became a broken machine, like a printer out of ink. Yes, a printer out of ink. They used me to print their papers, without any appreciation, and now there’s no more ink. I can’t print anything anymore. What saddens me the most is that I printed all their papers, but none of mine — mine are all blank. I wished someone would say, “it’s not broken, it’s just out of ink,” but I guess it’s easier to say I’m broken. Well, maybe I am. Maybe it’s impossible to fix me after so much damage. I can’t function anymore.