I can't be broken, right?
This can't be the end of her.
Even if she's covered in blood and empty silhouettes.
Even if she's all washed up with no faith or regrets, she can't be gone, right?
I can see her, broken glass from whiskey bottles in her skin, red glossy eyes, and burnt off split ends from each cigarette.
I can feel her, she can't breathe, and she's pleading, she's somewhere underneath.
And there's moments that she appears in the depth of black seas surrounded by blue and green.
She's so close but it's like she's too afraid to bleed, too afraid to scream.
I swear some days she smiles back at me, she sits at the edge of my bed while I cry and I always apologize, to her or myself, I'm not exactly sure.
And some days I swear she reaches for my hand, we get so close then I'm hurt all over again.
It feels like forgetting to breathe but never dying, just the endless pain of suffocating.
