It's on nights like these that I cuddle up with Crown
and hope the warmth in my stomach masks the cold inside.
However, it's on nights like these that it's proven to be too Royal,
(or that we're fresh out. Whichever comes first.)
And it's on nights like these that I stare at these blank pages,
wishing something other than my guts would come out.
And yet, I still feel transparent.
One glance and you'd see me falling apart;
The bags under my eyes are not a fashion trend.
My incessant need to sleep 23 out of the 24 hours in a day is not boredom.
In all forms of the word I am depressed.
My depression is a fresh coat of paint on the walls of my mind.
So when you ask me how I'm doing, I'll always say I'm just fine.
But the paint still drips.
Waiting for paint to dry is a painfully long process, I've come to find.
Waiting for paint to dry is like standing on the edge of a pool.
When you think the water is just right, that surely you've waited long enough, you dip a timid toe in...
And return with hypothermia.