Home is where your heart is. Only that she needs a heart to have a home. If only it was still intact,not as crumbled as it is, having bled dry, beyond fixing.

She doesn’t know since when she let this idea of crying to let go,or sharing your inner turmoil with someone close get to her. Well,what to do when she won’t let even that someone who considers themself close depicher her ominous fears.Pent up the sadness, ceremoniously awaiting the bursting of her eye banks,only to flood her face with emotions beyond talking about or writing away. Their expression purely divine.

Tears are for the weak. She keeps drumming into her stubborn head,as more teardrops fall. We’re strong. Strong girls don’t tear up.

Unless there’s a trigger . That confirms her greatest fear… thought she’d moved on,grown, become unbreakable,only to be hit by the realization that she’s still the old, pathetic emotional wreck that she’s always been.

The change of environment was just an illusion of sanity,a glimpse of normalcy,that she’ll continue to yearn for yet never experience .The price she pays for being authentic, choosing to not act indifferent or rather oblivious of her inner self,the broken one,not that facade she puts up for all to see.

A million thoughts racing,each with a view to driving her insane before the other does.All she’s left with is that pillow,that feels her bleeding heart,sees through to the wounds she’s nursing on it,the missing fragments. The one that soaks in her overnight tears, bearing the dry tear marks emphasized by the early morning sun.

A sun shining rays of hope to some, consuming flames to others. A light to enhance their shine, brightness to expose her brokenness.