And I sit there stringing the beads of sweat on my skin, dismantling a phone that hates me.
My breath has worn out the glass and my reflection smokes upside down.
The breeze coming in through the window grazes my skin and I sense your shadow seep into my blood burning it black.
It stains the bathmat and no amount of water can get it out.
The smiley-faces slit on the soft inner skin of my wrist no longer smile back.
I swirl designs and they stumble into words, ugly brutal words that make me catch my breath and hold it as a test against time.
One message. 20 letters. 5 words.
The nail scissors has always been kept in that little red basket on the shelf above the sink.
Pretty scissors, shiny metal, shiny red metal.
"I can't take this anymore."
Neither can I.
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