"Tell me something nice," I type. Send. Wait.
You're busy. That's alright. Okay.
Moving on to the tough decisions such as "Do I eat or do I a shower?"
Because I really only have the energy to do one.
Lifeless hours.
Suddenly, I'm crying. And I promise I'm not lying when I tell you
that I cannot pinpoint why my words taste so sour
inside my mouth.
You see, my mind is never black or white, day or night, it's a constant gray, a fog in twilight.
And I'm sorry that I cannot explain my brain to you or either of us and that you're the receiver of what thoughts spill out of me and tarnish the mood of the room.
I'm sorry that I'm telling you how I feel now because you always in turn feel the need to somehow repair what brokenness you assume is there. Right above my throat and behind my confused eyes.
(1) New Message - tell me something nice.