She, who cries in the night, has her eyes dried by dawn.
Sun rays seep through thin shades onto her sheets.
She blames her red swollen eyes on little sleep.
She goes through the motions to make ends meet,
holding onto the secrets she’s sworn to keep.
Trichromatic vision but she sees in variations of grey,
she has grown over familiar with the grief that gnaws away at her brain.
She feels like she is constantly circling the drain,
but she smiles, hoping nobody notices that she is in pain.
Like a clock in need of repair, she’s stuck at a standstill.
Her hands hardened by the memories of those who used to fill them.
She’s comparable to an irreparable pendulum rod.
Her face no longer corresponds with what’s going on.
She knows all too well how much a smile can hide.
She’s been conditioned to cast aside anything that is eating her alive.
Time has worn her so god awfully thin,
sadly, she’s done with the day before it even begins.
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