I'm sad. I don't want to be poetic about it, and compare my tears to the drops of rain before the storm, or how this weight inside my chest shortens my breaths and makes my heart work harder, beat harder. I'm done with trying to write everything away, like paper can keep my emotions prisoner when I shut the book. Why does my throat tighten, and my eyes feel heavy with grief like lead? Why can't I shake the dread and the worry, the belief that there won't be a better tomorrow? When will I be at rest? When will I be asleep at two in the morning, instead of nursing my demons at the mother's breast of my mind, too tired to wean then from the ****** that drains me?