Barely need to reach down to the floor to turn the kettle on. Use the same unwashed tea cup for the seventh time, the same teabag for the third. Everything is spread around me, all the trash that I collect. Soda cans, cigarette butts and paper tissues litter around my chair like a fortress of hopelessness. My back aches and my head feels tight. I'm sorry, but nothing is alright.
I can't find my desk under all these papers, boxes with medication and books. Counting cigarettes on a writing pad, and forget only half of them. All these reminder notes for things I'd rather just forget. Can barely breathe for all the smoke, but it gets so cold with the window open, I'd rather just suffocate. And I would solve the world problems by shutting them out, if I would let them in to begin with.
The refreshing taste of menthol with blood between my teeth from fresh wounds. It's an addiction that comes an goes, and it has for nine years in January. But time passes and I hardly even notice. I live in the past, in lost dreams and memories that never was. An inevitable sting in my heart. The dagger was already in, it was so easy just to twist it. I remain silent without tears, I built a wall I cannot break through even when I'm alone.
And I realise that I'm still holding back, can't let him into my soul. Cause if I do he'll be there forever, just like Caspian and T. I can deal with a broken heart, but a broken soul can never fully heal. Pull down my sleeves and light another cigarette. I'm still here.
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