At 8:00 am today,
I wake up,
drank a bottle
of lemonade,
and suffer
with my own
lonely struggles.
Slowly I’m
going insane.

I cut—
then I cut the lemon,
drain out the juice
over the wounds
I’ve made.
It stings.

The closet
kills the most.
Behind closed doors,
I still ache on those
dark wooden floors.

I still
wait for you
as I sip my
bittersweet
lemonade.