Taking a deep breath is hard when your neck is being squished. And your eyes are wet, painted with tears.
I hate holding them back. The “crying breath” I have is uneven. ‘I’m just sniffling!’ type of sniffles, as if there’s not snot running up and down my nostrils.
I get in a steaming hot shower; not wanting to bathe, but wanting to escape. Watching beads of water hit my raised skin calms my heartbeat, but also gives me a sense of sadness. When you’re sad, you start to notice little things like the pattern of your breath, the serious line spread upon your lips when someone tells a joke in hopes of cheering you up, the gulps you take, and your milky, glazed eyes staring blankly back at you in the mirror you haven’t cleaned in weeks because you didn’t have enough energy to walk up and down the stairs to get the cleaner and to put it back. You start to pretend. You pretend to love, and to hate. You hate the world and everyone so much, but only because you are hurting and you don’t want to hurt others by letting them in, or them to hurt you too. 

Nonetheless, you hurt anyway.