I reach but I can't pull the handle.
If I move my hand now will it fall apart?
I turn around but I can't fall back.
I don't know how to do this, I can't seem to force myself into my wishes.
I scoot closer but I can't lean forward.
I kept ripping the paper, unusually mad.
I don't know why I wanna cry.
I wanna stop and pour salt onto these open wounds, the way the fan blows against them while the tears dry.
The bloods already turned into scabs.
Soon they will scar to, but that's fine cause it'd hurt more if they'd just fade.
I can't touch my self-esteem I know it will break.
It's like a Mercury thermometer, if it breaks it can poison you.
It uses the last of its strength to dial your life to zero and gone.
