taste of salt.

my eyes are puffy and watering. my mouth is dry, and my back is cramped from falling asleep in the fetal position. i had to get off the phone last night ... i couldn't hear real voices through my ears ... not just now.

honest and shamed, i'm lowering my head to all of you now. i'm sorry. i can't deal. i'm sorry. i'm not strong. i'm sorry that your words remind me of him along with your hands, your breath, and everything in between.

truth is, it's unbearable, faulty, and shredding, watching the unappreciative and blind carelessly fumble through their loved, breaking bones and dropping hearts. these are the moments when i can't look into faces without wanting to punch violently into the air. so, i stay locked away, unshowered, ratatatting on a keyboard, saying i'm sorry over and over again ... because i don't know what else to do but climb back into bed. muffled by the pillow, i can't change the damn world, and i don't want to try. the revolution ended with his headstone so roll the credits. i'm useless and lacking the stories. i'm a damn traitor who lost the only fucking purpose she had. don't you dare tell me that this emptiness, this hell, that this isn't real because i'm the one living here. and everyday, it's just the same.