That morning I woke up crying, like usual. I didn't know anymore whether I was sad or not-my feelings had flowed away with the tears. I lay there listlessly in bed, starring at my ceiling until I felt my heart slowly catch on its own unsteady beats. Choking back tears, I closed my eyes and listened to my pulse crashing in my ears. My fingertips throbbed and I felt my heartbeat under every inch of my skin. My shirt clung to me, clammy and cold as the morning air. My brown hair was tangled and curled over my tear stained pillowcase. The worst of it was that I could almost feel him there. His fingers at my back, slowly rolling his knuckles over every distinct bone. I could feel his breath at my neck. And even as I closed my eyes to rid the memory of him, I felt his lips, glassy and cold against my shoulder.
"I have to get out of here," I whispered to myself. It was no longer a feeling I had, but a need. I needed to get out of there or I would surely break.
I'll come down to get you high.
or maybe sing you a lullaby.
sing you to sleep,
a sleep you'll never wake from.
sing you to coma so to speak.
and when I fall down, I'll fall apart.