reality is a grave.the walls are too clean.
it's wrong how clean the walls are, how even the air is sterile. it seems almost cruel to make such a place so hollow and vacant only to have you realize it's just making room. room for muffled sobs and choked-on tears and emotions so thick that if they were to allow any dust there wouldn't be room to breathe at all. it's allowing room for stifled emotional breakdowns shuddering down your spine and smiles quivering precariously on the tip of your lips.
it's not cruel, it's just practical.
and you're looking down on wax-paper skin and glassy eyes and a voice so chipper it hurts to hear. a voice that rambles like some fairytale forest brook but isn't telling anything mythical or picturesque or any damn story you ever want to hear again. it's like wind chimes shattering wishes and chirping birds announcing black widow funerals. beauty shouldn't kill, shouldn't mask rotting truths, but, sitting there with bleeding ears, you know it does.
so, you shake like an autum