My thoughts
are
just
fragments
of what
I can('t)
say out loud.

My notebook.
My idea.
My problem.
My trust.

Mine.
Mine.
Mine.

painhurtpulsepulsepulse
letmeoutletmeoutgetmeout(!)

Tears again
falling
down
as if in
s l o w … m o t i o n . . . .

So, really.
What the (fuck) next?

a/n: It won't leave my freaking ! italic in the parentheses.
So pretend it's italic.