StillStill on a slippery slope T-minus one hundred fifty days The ash of dried tears Still cake the arch of my cheek as new wetness rolls over…and down. Still. At night the soft sigh still escapes into the darkness. The quiet whispers back with the stillness of nothing. I swallow back the vacuum inside. The taste is bitter–of regret. It’s sour with hate. Stings like the salt of the pain rubbed against a wound that still bleeds the sweet iron taste of love. It’s a taste that curls in my mouth. Bile rises and I’m left with the hollowness of hate.
Some days, I still do.