She once sat on the sofa beside her, and watched every fragile movement she made with her own eyes. Memories bleed like running paint. She asks for peace, but it seems that no one is paying mind. She can’t be happy. She really has tried. But she can’t see beyond yesterday. Perhaps her heart is not as strong as she once believed. The only thing that keeps her knowing that she is alive is the pain.
Perhaps she is defective, un-effective, self disrespected.
She wasn’t always like this.
She wants to hide away from the world that rejected her, the lovers that have bruised her heart and mind. She goes out and tries to re-connect with the friends she has neglected and the family she has by her side. With all her heart, she tries. But it just does not stop the pain. She fakes a smile. Her moods are more violent than a storm that summons the rain. The music seems to be made for her moodiness.
She wasn’t always like this.
She can’t help but feel responsible for the degradation of her soul, so much hurtful shame. But she can’t save herself. She is too far-gone. She is not sweetness. She only tastes like the salt of her companion tears.
She is so sorry that she let you down. She fights the temptation to tell you that she needs you by her side. You are no longer talking and she can no longer plea. She is far beyond repair, she now realizes. Her spirit is near dead. She is an empty vessel that carries the message of what she once believed in. Love, life, happiness.
Stale rooms full of people dancing. Yet she still feels so alone. The sound of laughter fills the air, but her stomach continues to turn. She can’t wait for this life to end. She remembers seeing the face of death in the hospital room, just a few short months ago. It seems too have decided to leave with her, and taunts her day and night.
She wants to go back home now.
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