And I think to myself, "Yah, right, it takes so many hours to wear off and it was just a few minutes ago when I burst into tears? And I was not in a 'high' in any sense of the word at all today. Just a perfect little china doll sitting prettily in the corner, sewing. The perfect feminine doll. Just a sweet little marionette who smiles because she is supposed to. Who says what she is supposed to."

If I die right now, I will still be the perfect china doll behind the viewing pane of my coffin. A perfect little doll wrapped in the whitest tissue laced with gold.

I understand why tears are considered a solid sphere, a ball of hurt and bitterness and pain cogulating in the vicinity of your heart. It just pains and pains and there is no way to let it out, unless you cry. Or you choke to death on your own salt. But what happens if you refuse to cry? To give in to the temptation of letting go? Then you wish you could let your arm dangle from the side of the bed and rivulets of blood slowly drip, drip, drip incessantly, following the curve of the arm.

That's how much I hurt right now. And how much I hate myself in this state. Why am I so weak? Would anyone care if I expired on the spot now? And yes, there will be people who do. But they are so far away right now, and I need someone close.