Burlap Skins

Open windows. Teasing the wind. Long arms grabbing at the raindrops. Needles dripping with the perfect dose of poison. To make me just sick enough to live.

Nervous lips taste the smirk in the glass. As it breathes another bit of gravity into her veins. Despair's gentle monster crawls into her bed. And quietly devours. The person she thought she was.

It rains so much louder than it used to. And I listen much too closely. To the stutter of the hours as each one is choked away. By a relentless series of tomorrows. Everything grows so old and tired, yet nothing ever ends.

Open windows. Reach out for the rain. For proof that gravity is still there.