Your tears spell out the shape of rose petals, in the dusk. They dissolve into the crowd of other droplets inhabiting your pillow. Each one settles down quickly, as if they’ve found a home within the cotton patchwork. The drying stains of the droplets create intricate patterns in a muted language. Tears don’t need to speak much.
Your face is taut, silent, strong. But it is within the confinement of this room, you keep such composure. Because you know, outside the window, behind the door, hidden behind the walls, is the place where danger is imminent. So you hold onto yourself, the only thing you can hold and protect, as you are the protagonist of your story. You picture your perfect ending…
One day, you hope to be swallowed by the day’s beautiful death – the rays of tropical twilight touching, embracing, your soul with the taste of the sun. After this you will be unsure what follows, but if and when that day comes, you will surely not feel so secluded and alone.
The streaks across your face, drying, fade away from the world. And you’re left with the emptiness that is only yourself.