Each night that you lock yourself in the closet when the sun goes down and the moon barely illuminates the sky
cry, tired of confronting demons and all
the heart numb, beating right onto the ribcage, so much their delicate pattern is imprinted on the crimson smithereens
stomach in knots
a bonded chest
so struggling to breath
the only retreat you’ve ever been deserving of is one into your thoughts in the solitude and silence of the night
if they do exist, are they not tired too?
of your snorty nose, silent sobs and hysteria
are they laying there grinning
at the sound of a breaking heart that knows one thing and does it so well the fragments no longer care to come back together.