I am just another broken girl...

I will toss and turn with the impatient panic of a five year old. Outside the night wind has left her fingerprints pasted on trees, ashen bodies lay limp against the late January sky. My stomach hurts, and my breath fist fights my tongue for release, but the words will be hasty, and the repertoire a manic scribbling of the purest state of grief. I will regret, I will regret more than I can imagine, those words, those tears, this moment. I am just another broken girl. I am just another cliche of skin and bone, of memories, of regrets, of sad words turned and twisted onto a blank page in the name of art. I am tired like everyone else.