Status: Finished. Tell me what you think if you'd like.
Disharmony of Thought
1/1
She stands in front of the open window, a light, yet frigid breeze tickling her nose and rearranging strands of her caramel stained hair. Her tongue itches with unspoken phrases, neatly worded, but they stick in her throat like a butterfly caught in a net.
A sigh escapes her pursed lips, the cancer she could not exhale as she smoked her last cigarette. The pack now lies empty on her bed next to the carton it originated from, just as empty.
The stars stare at her glassy eyes, solemn reminders of what could have been, but wasn't. She gazes back at them, the envy rising in her frame a ticking time bomb, ready to obliterate everything in her path.
An unearthly noise resonates from deep within her chest, and she places a sickly pale hand on the wall to balance her weak body. Her forest green eyes roll back into her skull as her nails dig into the palm of her hand, tearing the frail flesh which clung to her ever brittle bones.
Her knees crash into the polished wooden floorboards and she clutches her sides helplessly as the nerves invade her stomach to climb her exhausted esophagus only to rush out of her burning mouth. Hysteria spills onto the floor near her trembling knees until she gathers control of herself once more.
Her shaky legs carry her into the bathroom where she pulls open a cabinet door and tears into a bottle of oblong chalky white pills. They fall down her throat like shards of glass, slicing her tender flesh.
While holding in another expulsion from her agitated organs, she dampens a towel and goes to scrub her nerves off of the wooden floorboards of her bedroom. The odor of vomit hung in the air, a palpable momento of a simple woman's needless, yet persistent over thinking.
A sigh escapes her pursed lips, the cancer she could not exhale as she smoked her last cigarette. The pack now lies empty on her bed next to the carton it originated from, just as empty.
The stars stare at her glassy eyes, solemn reminders of what could have been, but wasn't. She gazes back at them, the envy rising in her frame a ticking time bomb, ready to obliterate everything in her path.
An unearthly noise resonates from deep within her chest, and she places a sickly pale hand on the wall to balance her weak body. Her forest green eyes roll back into her skull as her nails dig into the palm of her hand, tearing the frail flesh which clung to her ever brittle bones.
Her knees crash into the polished wooden floorboards and she clutches her sides helplessly as the nerves invade her stomach to climb her exhausted esophagus only to rush out of her burning mouth. Hysteria spills onto the floor near her trembling knees until she gathers control of herself once more.
Her shaky legs carry her into the bathroom where she pulls open a cabinet door and tears into a bottle of oblong chalky white pills. They fall down her throat like shards of glass, slicing her tender flesh.
While holding in another expulsion from her agitated organs, she dampens a towel and goes to scrub her nerves off of the wooden floorboards of her bedroom. The odor of vomit hung in the air, a palpable momento of a simple woman's needless, yet persistent over thinking.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is... weird. Comments are appreciated, tell me what you think? Constructive criticism is welcome, as well.