It's this sinking feeling
in my gut that makes me pick up my feeble head and realize it's only my heart falling from me.
I do not know how
I pushed my hands through the bones but somehow my still beating heart is in my palm.
It's such a fragile
disgusting thing that shows how easy it is to identify weakness when you thought no one could point it out.
I'm looking and I'm watching
it beating three, four, six
times too fast and I know but don't understand it's panic.
I wrote you a letter today.
But the words felt too alike to the ones in a suicide note and now there are burning raindrops falling from the clouds beneath my eyelashes.
It's as if the Niagara Falls
decided to move into my body thinking the verge of Canada isn't good enough for me.
I had no idea
how sad you were until I tried to help with showing how much I care but a colorful letter will never charge happiness into a blank depression.
I should know better.
