The hollow
Pound.
Pound.
Pound.
Whispers behind pursed lips,
never exhaled,
never let go of.
Hangs like heavy ornaments from your lungs,
swing swing.
The weight on your stomach is unbearable.
A few hours of crying,
cold cheeks,
weak legs.
How much concealer can cover a night's worth of steady tears?
Tick,
tock,
tick,
tock.
It is waiting for you when you crawl into bed,
a big ugly monster that you still can't conquer on your own.
What is the price on resentment these days?
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