Inhale the scent of freshly painted walls.
Exhale the tears.
Words and thoughts are stopped up inside, as though she has forgotten how to be. What is actually wrong? What causes this breathless sobbing, this hatred of self, this feeling that every ill is deserved?
The answer evades her, and the answer-less question pulls her under.
And quitting. It sounds nice.
More than nice. It’s something she years for, aches for. Quitting–she would take it in the form of death, or even just an accident. Like falling down the stairs or getting hit by a car. But the children?
She could never do that to them.
Therefore, suffering alone is her only option. The only option in which she gets what she deserves.
So continue crying in the bathroom, weak one–against the freshly painted wall. But be quiet, for the children might hear.
Romanticizing Reality 