Nights like these, I think. I feel weight on my shoulder, I feel almost broken but I think maybe I might be. My fingers are so small and the days that I look at them I feel like they keep slipping away from me. MY tiny bones that make my fingers strong seem to disappear and the warmth of my chest go cold not slowly at all but all at once. My mind is feeding in all the imagines of gentle rain that was carried thought out the week. The smell of rain calms me and it makes me weak in the thoughts that seem to ease the pain. The pain seems to get weary and I seem to drown myself in sorrow and while the months pass my sleep last longer. My words never seem to find them self’s while my mind rushes all the words into sentences that never come out of my mouth.