Two months is a long time. I'm
desperately clutching at lives
so recently made I can barely
believe they are memories.

The past can't change,
but the present is flippant.
I'm holding my breath in.
Do not disturb.

My bedroom is a prison cell,
I'm pressing my hands to the windows.
I don't want to leave.
There are bad things out there.

There's a pain in my teeth.
I do wish you would just come here,
into my room and lay down beside me.
Allow me some dignity, tell me you're sorry.

I'm angry at everything, drowning
in conflicted reasoning. All I do
is count down the days to something,
and pray it's better than waiting.