Closing my eyes,
forcing tears to remain behind their weary shells:
I will not give in.
You tell me to get over it, you tell me to stop being so dramatic.
Well, dramatic is what I do best, right?
The scent of lemons wafts through my nose,
as I bite down on the fleshy part of my dry, withered, lips.
Anger consumes me, flaming up, burning.
At times I could burst, break, just fall apart.
I can't handle all of this baggage you throw into my
I need to run, to get away...
but for now...
I'll just put a bag over my head,
and cowar beneath an old, gnarled, weeping, willow.