Breaking Vases
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Everything about me is an overreaction. My mood moves up and down, more turbulent than the most violently terrible storm. I go to sleep happy and wake up angry. I stick bolts in my ears and put on a lot of black eyeliner and blast grunge rock and hope I go deaf and imagine myself in an endless row of glass vases. I pick up the vases, one by one, and throw them, crash them, break them as hard as I can and scream as I release. Tinkle tinkle tinkle as the glass shatters and cuts my feet from where I stand. Pressure rises through my chest and lingers behind my eyes. I cry angry tears and frustrated tears and hopeless tears and wish I wasn't such a coward so I could just end it all. My tears have smeared my makeup so that black trails run runny under my eyes. My hands come away from my face wet and black. My black nail polish is starting to chip off. I look at the broken vases on the ground and the forever stretching rows of unbroken vases around me and the savagely shameful pressure is dissipating so that I only feel an unbearable sadness in its place that is even worse simply because it is nothing. An endless ocean surrounds me and I close my eyes and let myself sink slowly beneath the silent waves and hope I never wake up again...
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