She closed the eyes that he swore were beautiful, and let a shaky puff of air leave her lungs. If it was her last she wouldn't have cared because forcing every one after felt like dying. The pain washed from her chest down her arms to the very tips of her fingers and lingered only for a second. It came when the breathing halted, when her body jolted in silent sobs.
She was very good at pretending, and had mastered the falsification of every emotion that she allowed to reach the surface of her face. Some days, though, she just couldn't hide the churning waves in her stomach and blamed any discomfort others could see on exhaustion.
No one knew the hollowness that ironically filled her heart. She couldn't stand the thought of being just another over dramatic girl seeking attention. She refused to cry. Crying, she had learned, got you no where. No one cared when you cried, they just blurted a calloused, "What's wrong," and usually just left it alone. Sadness and reasons for it were just pushed aside and buried because they didn't matter in the real world. No one cared that you hurt, that you needed help. You weren't even allowed to ask for support; as soon as you did you were called weak, a cry baby. She didn't want to be a cry baby...
I know this isn't a poem, so if you want to be angry with me I understand, and I'm sorry.