I lay on my floor, flat on my back and staring at the lifeless ceiling.
My breathing,
so soft, so quiet.
I don't want to hear the noise my chest makes going up and down,
for I will avoid the evidence that I am, indeed, still alive and not dead yet.
I should be.


It's late
but I don't want to sleep.
I do not fear the feeling of sleep, I fear the morning after.
The disappointment that tags along when I wake up that I am still breathing, and I did not die in my sleep.
I will have to go through another day of never being anybody's first choice and never doing anything right.

And I want to die but I don't want to **** myself because that's such a selfish thing to do, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I could only imagine the world as the shape of your jawline and the forrest half the colour of your brown eyes, that I didn't realize that your footprints were only another thing that was beautiful on the sand.
I'm sorry the coffee cup that you last drank from is still sitting on the counter waiting to be washed and sometimes I kiss the spot you sipped from, I'd do anything, to feel anything, that once touched you.