youre just another mother fucker singing proud
the hallway floors were plastered in a bright white paint.
i've never enjoyed setting foot into a hospital,
& this, well this was just torture.
memories of elizabeth rapidly attacked my mind.
tears pounded against the soft tissue of my bright green eyes,
but i refused to let them out.
i have only cried once for your death, and i'm ashamed to say that he heard it.
the guilt won't stop pulling at me.
those voices of my own, circling inside my head, tormenting me;
"you should have made an effort to get there to see her"
"you should have emailed her more often"
"you should have told her you cared more about her"
"you should have kept your promise"
should have, could have, but didn't. right?
isn't that how it always works?
& when that person is gone, what then?
& if one does not believe in heaven or hell, what then?
& is there any second chances?
or is that it.
how can one feel eyes piercing down into their skin from some other place, & not hope for a second chance?
tears may escape from my eyes now, but you can bet i will deny they ever happen.
& now, my mother is sick. with pleurisy & pneumonia.
walking down the halls of this building, death thrown in gushes of white paint along the walls, death walking in soft shoes with long gowns & blank staring gazes which you fanatically try to avoid.
this fear is almost as unbearable as it is terrifying.
i just have to keep telling myself she'll be okay.
i can't handle something like this, not now.