The worst days are the stillest.
The quietest. The loneliest.
The days you fill each speck of time to move it along.
The days where midnight is not a relief and 3AM, you hope, is bedtime.
Days it cracks it's locks and grows in you, blooming ugly into lungs so you are reminded with each inhale.
Days you shut your eyes and count like shouting back at yourself.
Days where you're not even sure what day it is.