She doesn’t want to be and doesn’t know what to do.
Embarrassment, telling known strangers, telling anyone why she cries alone only to wipe the tears and go on.
She whispers to herself, this is hell, expecting any change even after I try.
Suffering in dying skin, days of futility repeated without any chance to win.
If there’s is no point, no reason, she thinks this is a good stopping point.
She whispers her bookmark says it’ll be right here wherever she left it.
Don’t stay because you’ll feel bad, it’ll be forgotten before you know it.
