The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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67. Not

I am not alive.

I am breathing, my heart is beating, yet my insides feel as rotten as the earth in winter and it is so cold that I can feel the snow sticking to my bones.

I try, you know?  I really do.

But then I hear the wind howling through my thin walls at night and it sounds like your name.

People tell me to move on, and that it’ll be okay.

But I don’t feel like I’m able to and I don’t think it will ever be okay.

It’s only November, but my mind has already turned into a wasteland of memories too painful and cuts much too deep.

 

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