Tears percolate from
round, fishbowl eyes,
cheeks a sting
with salt
and loneliness.
I barter with the deluge,
hold my breath
for as long as my lungs
will permit
until a motley of colour
bruises over my vision.
And I can't help but think:
perhaps fainting is
the next best thing to dying,
especially when you are too afraid
to commit to the permanence
of killing yourself.
My only dilemma?
What am I to do with myself--
with the tears--
once I regain consciousness?
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(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
