my stomach hurts.
my skin is breaking out.
my back aches in a place which seems to reduce all possibilities of comfort.
I cry.
even when I don't mean to.
the smallest most insignificant things make glistening crystals rise up like shields of diamonds in my eyes.
I am just being dramatic.
just being immature.
just at that time of the month.
I am just a girl.
so why do your words hurt so much?
why do they feel like a tight cord wrapping around my throat, squeezing delicate pink skin with their roughness until I can't breathe, until my head starts to spin and my chipped red nails claw at the rope?
My black mascara leaves trails down my cheeks, the saltiness engraving my sadness into flesh as if it were stone.
it will not be endless; this sadness.
I will cry and I will get up to prepare for your next blow.
I will squeeze my own throat to grow accustomed to the roughness of your words as they encase me like a vice.
My stomach still hurts.
my skin is still breaking out.
my back still aches.
I am still just a girl.
