Impossible

When you've cried for an hour it's impossible to go back. When you reach three you realise nobody noticed anyway so it doesn't really matter.

The pain of loneliness is crippling, but you hide in the shadows to save embarassing people near with painful red eyes. But it doesn't really matter.

You scream inside as you despair for the help that will never come, the same help you would offer in an instant. But then it doesn't really matter.

And as you finally crawl in to bed fully clothed because you can't admit even to yourself how you've wasted more time as you've wasted so much before. Yet it doesn't really matter.

Then at four in the morning, it starts again, tears pool and fall with each pain driven rend. You fear of what's next, what twist of life's knife. And all you know is it just doesn't really matter.

I'll be fine.