Dry Suitcases

Am I breathing?

Maybe not.

It’s like my feelings walked away with a cheap suitcase and a lonely book.

Lingering in an empty train station with nothing but that damn suitcase, filled with rotten memories and blood.

You said you hated me today.

I wish I felt something but I walked into that fucking train station with no remorse.

Should I feel bruised?

Now here I am, vomiting memories out of my mouth.

Should I weep at the thought of you spitting words in my face?

Now here I am, sparking this fiery stick of illness, feeding my cancer like a baby.

Should I howl and wail until my voice croaks, or act tongue tied?

Now here I am, anxious to feel something other than my icy toes on the dirt.

Nothing.

Just a dry suitcase with nothing but crumbs inside and a train that doesn’t pick up pessimistic girls on Sunday nights.