She's in a long black coat tonightStress always manifests in me so violently, obviously, wracking my body from head to toe with uncontrollable tears and endless debilitating headaches and stony silence as I fight my way through another day of remembering to breathe and not cry when I catch a melody of a song that I like. Remembering the the little things building up are not the worst and maybe I don't have to fall apart over a flat tire or a broken nail.
Waiting for me in the downpour outside
She's singing "Baby come home" in a melody of tears
While the rhythm of the rain keeps time
But I do and it's like those little things, when you stack enough of them up are just as tall now as the big things and it doesn't seem to matter if the issue at hand is important enough, it's all painted with the same brush. It's all the same catastrophe and I keep trying to arrange things just perfectly in my deranged OCD way. Everything straight in a row, checked seven times because my memory shuts down first and leaves the rest of me to sort it out like throwing someone with no limbs into the sea and yelling at them to swim already.
That's what it's like.
It isn't pretty, it isn't film-worthy or book-worthy or fit for public consumption. It's like being in a coma and feeling everything when they've already decided you feel nothing and to just go ahead with no anesthetic. Rip out her heart. Rip out her mind. Rip out her soul.
Keep it for spare parts.