The Slow Death
It's the sting of the salty tears of grief as they drip down the burns on my face.
It's the weight of an elephant pressing against my chest.
It's the shallow, excruciating breaths that feel as though they are through a mixing straw.
It's the skydiving feeling of falling into a black hole with no parachute.
It's drops of sweat soaking my pink nightie as my hand grazes the empty sheets.
It's the goosebumps on my neck as I see your ghost driving a black BMW.
It's the two hospital stays that require my heart to be monitored because it is literally breaking.
It's the mortal reality that no one can survive with a broken heart.