her eyes reluctantly open and the weight of despair suffocates her as she reaches for the phone to see what time it is. it's 0232. she feels the pressure of a full bladder but doesn't want to move. she feels the emptiness of their bed with only her in it. if she just lays still enough, quiet enough, she can fall back asleep.
but she can't.
the moment her eyes open, her brain awakens with relentless torment. she can't shut it off no matter how hard she tries. a plea echoes within her brain, "make it stop." just for the day. just one day she would like to shut off her brain.
but she can't.
she replays every scenario she has questioned over the last few months. she finds the lies. she finds the happiness. she finds the sadness. she finds everything but him. she wants desperately to find him.
but she can't.
he made his choice. it wasn't her. he walked out. he left her in a wake of despair and confusion. his decision echoes like a never ending funeral. it was like she slammed into a brick wall that never existed before. she wishes she could change everything that happened.
but she can't.
she's tired of crying. she's tired of holding her mouth shut to dampen the anguish wishing to escape her. she doesn't want anyone to hear her cry. she doesn't want anyone to see her cry. she just wants to hide away.
but she can't.
she can't escape the feelings. the pain. the heartbreak. it's all too much for her. the one person she wants to care, doesn't. he left. he doesn't care. she wishes she could make him care.
but she can't.
the pain engulfs her like a thousand fire ants all at once. it hurts so bad. while she has felt this pain before, it has never been this intense. she is in her own personal hell wishing to end the suffering. wishing to sever the unrelenting grip of despair. she pleads with herself, "make it stop."
but she can't.
she exists as a pile of discarded leaves decomposing in the darkest, loneliest, saddest corner of the world. this is her testament to the withering of her hope and the erosion of a once vibrant spirit.
