She lived with a broken heart
but on constant vacations;

with the comfort that
it could always be worse:

she got up whenever she felt like it;
drank tons of coffee;
had breakfast if she remembered to;
smoked swallowing her solitude;

roamed through the streets
without a set course
and drank indifference out of habit
more than for pleasure...


Routine is the best poison.


A piece of her soul
was stolen away from her;

the clouds never left her window
and days always appear painted
in endless shades of grey.

Color was wiped off of her hands
and her tired-from-crying eyes
are still subjected to memories' shadow


She is afraid of the idea
that she's dying.

with a set of broken wings
she has her skin inside-out:

with a cheap tag
and her entrails
hanging outside


desperately looking in.


© Distilled Melancholy

Broken heart drawing by SN | Saatchi Art