And the truth is that it hurts

like you died a little after each word.
Slow, yet sudden stabs in your chest
every time their tongues danced.
Like glaciers threaded into your ears,
melting into acid on your eardrums.
So much weight that you carry
underneath your eyes
from staying up by the window,
being envious of the moon
-how she’s distant from harm.
Oh, how your night is eventful-
routine compulsion of counting sheep
-the ones jumping off the moon.
Gently, you crawl in bed and count
the ones drowning in the sea
of apathy that is your ceiling
And as your ritual, you find yourself
filling your diary with tears.
Quill tears, and yours to compete
for a place on your pillow
as you fall asleep, ink in hand
and thoughts on a battered paper,
hurt just as much.