I sit, letting everything slither down.
Down my throat, through my lungs, and deep within my soul.
The stories of most rest untold.
But is the rest really so easily kept content?
I shiver, dreaming about the new year and the trials it holds.
Do cynics always feel this cold?
I suppose they do.
The messages re-read allowed from you.
Will my voice ever hold sturdy again?
You make me falter in all the most important, sainty questioning, ways.
Hating you takes too much.
Loving you receives so little.
Feeling nothing for you?
You are the stain on the once clear face of my life.
No scrubbing or rubbing will relinquish that fact.
Take the depth of this sincerity to heart, because I hear nothing in my hollow chest.
It would be easy to blame you, wouldn't it?