a piece of heaven lives inside of me but i don't feel heavenly

an artificial sorta sweet

i feel weathered. the storm has come and gone, but the weathermen can't seem to figure out what will happen next. i've spent the last few months imploding and wishing i could leave the party early to go home and write my moon-kissed poems about how charred life is. everyone acts so damn sweet it makes my teeth ache and it's a sweetness your tongue can taste hours later. it's an artificial sorta sweet. is the only way to get over this to put my feelings into these pointless scriptures? his fingertips nudge the side of my thigh to let me know that i am alright; that i am safe. but a few things in the middle of my breakdown lead me to believe otherwise: i) they're all looking at me, their eyes are daggers into my smudged aura. ii) they don't say a damn thing. iii) they look at each other with the same expression that bounces off every single wall and somehow makes it back to their faces in time. it makes me wish i could leave. makes me want to run away. sink into the floor. close the door and never open it. makes me wish i'd done anything except walk through his front door. makes me wish my tongue wasn't so afraid of saying what i am thinking. i don't know why it is. they can't make me bleed anymore; they can't remember how.