falklandtown

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 bruised arms. 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.