these months have tainted hues of midnight blues upon my cheekbones, scathing trails of unmarked tears that refuse to fall.
they lay neighbored next to my eye comfortable and still, knowing what lays beyond will hurt more than what brought them before me.
i can no longer cry.
  i can no longer speak.
    this poem is what i could manage out of... this. no one could tell that my flesh and bones have been ****** and plucked of life.
a sithering garden of greys and graves amidst this summer of weary blues.

i can no longer remain
i can no longer remain.