the pressure build,
and the crescendo that
sounded too depressing to not
be a decrescendo, sped up.
the taste of failure was not new,
it clung to her mouth and
lied a mantra through her head,
it stuck to her skin and bled
through her pores, washing out
good intentions and what was right.
so she cried softly until the pressure
sunk to a dull thrum behind her eyes.
it was the dark thoughts of knowing
that it would always come back,
that kept her up at night.

she gave in too easily,
and had no strength to lift herself up.