weakness.

I made a mistake and now I'm paying for it. I sit on the edge of your bed. You're concerned, I'm not responding.  Tears brim at the edge of my eyes, that hesitation before they spill over and down my cold cheek. "Is it one of those days?" you ask. I barely nod, I can't tell you anything.

At home alone. I try to do the mundane tasks. Grab the handle of the fridge and grief knocks me to my knees. I hold on for support and wait till it passes. My muscles and limbs ignore me when I command. My hands go limp and I wait and wait and sink lower into the dark.

I've got to get out.
Get out.
Out.