Scared.
Shaking.
Can barely breathe.
Tears well up, attempting to break the surface.
Insides getting torn up by mistakes; mine and others.
Regret forms, pouring pain down my throat.
Chest aching, torment cements in an empty stomach.
Needing comfort, but my only resource is dry, dusty, gone.
Stolen.
Ran off.
Want bleeds me cold.
Need ***** me empty.
Pain steals all other feeling.
Tears are needed to cleanse my soul, but I can't find them.
They won't come screaming down my cheeks like I so desperately want.
I just want to wash away all this, wish away all this.
I'm all huddled up,
begging for solace.
begging for some sort of recognition from the universe.
But it won't come.
Not yet.

Lady-in-waiting paces upstairs.

Wagering hopes.

The silence grows louder each day than the last.
It's time.

She never said she was sorry,
And worse still,
She never knew that she had done anything wrong.
For while those ridiculously red lips of hers
Were biting viciously on the stale red rubber
She called Twizzlers,
I was pouring instant coffee into that mug,
The one she tried to paint the solar system on.
She gave up though when she realised only 6 planets would fit
and smeared that mug,
Handle and all,
In black paint.
I know it was fired at the ceramic shop,
The paint made dry as lips in late November,
Yet every time I dare to stomach a sip
Of my once warming brew,
My mouth is dyed darker than
a night that has never known stars.

/
Sick of people.
Sick of these self diagnosed depressed teenagers.
Sick of these self proclaimed hipsters.
Sick of these self prescribed med ******.
Sick of life.
/