I always thought it was my own misery that is choking me. But it turns out it is his that bloats like a balloon until it overshadows every tiny bit of mine.
And yet all I do is slide out of the room silently yet loud at the same time, because when I leave I poke the balloon until it burst and reveals thousand tiny tears for a thousand tiny mistakes. And I can’t bear to watch it all float around and mix with the air and the water until it forms a cloud, hanging over me like a gloomy Sunday afternoon and I just pray to be gone before it starts to rain.
And I put on stories like flashy dark sunglasses, wrapping my whole world in a different shade of dark. Because the sun burns ruthlessly. And I just know I’m about to burn up. And all my ashes will smell of secret and lies and tragic unspoken apologies. They will be bitter like that.