Titles are Overrated

Part 185

The white walls

are closing in.

I'm afraid to touch them,

with my palms

of red.

The floor is cold,

but I am colder.

Tears bleed down my cheeks,

as my skin does

with each slit of self doubt.

I made the mistake

of thinking that bottling everything up

was strong.

I drank it all,

burning my throat

and choking.

It tastes like the sea,

salty and frigid.

Have I been drowning

all this time?

I throw the bottle against

the white walls,

and it breaks.

Broken glass glitters

like shattered stars on the floor.

I want to be with them,

to be one of them.

But they don't want me

just yet. 

the glass is overflowing