Taciturn.

She is unhappy. She feels left alone. She locks her hand between the door and the wall to calculate the pain. She stares into the cupboard mirror waiting for her eyes to swell. She slips beneath bed sheets and cries herself to sleep. She scrawls in disconsolate fashion and every paragraph she scribbles has ink botched by a tear drop. Her frame is frail and her hands thin. The clinical look has gone further morose and her view is as cynical as a moon's during solar eclipse. It takes her time to go to sleep at night and her clothes are as wary, weary, and sluggish as she is. In bed, she lies without effort and refuses. She believes intention does not exist and her sole escape is music, as melancholic as she is. She only walks out when the sky is grey for only then can her skin match the weather. She will only neat a dark rum for that is slow vacation from everything woebegone. She is crestfallen and nothing amuses her. Her anemic, ashen lips destroy any hint of a better day. She goes blanche and her insipid fingers and toes move lifelessly on the carpet. She talks of death and a better place afterwards. She talks of what could have been. She knows not what she wants. She believes I love her. I am unhappier.