I'll shiver in the cold, but will you ever really look at me again?

My hair fell over one eye today as I tried to hide the fact that when you look at me, there is nothing more to find. Dead woman walking, maybe, but I prefer the term emotionally frigid girl who really doesn't give a damn about her own lack of feelings. It takes longer to say, but I like it.

I washed my hands too many times today, causing a trillion skin cells to commit suicide in protest. As I nurse my chafing hands, my eyes glazed over, further affirming my suspicion that I have no feelings left to exploit. Lucky you.

The eyes are the window to the soul, but that means nothing if the curtains are drawn.
Living behind a veil might be thrilling for a breath in time, but when the urge to tear it down overwhelms me, I find that my fingers refuse.

Today, I ran through that street and up the pine needle-strewn steps where I sat with you last winter and all I could think about was how weak I was and how cold you were, and now look at us...distant strangers that avoid eye contact whenever possible (at least I do) and I will shove my sunglasses up my nose so that you cannot see my dead eyes and you will pretend not to see me while my flats smack the sidewalk obviously and the faint scent of your cologne chokes me again...

I'll see you tomorrow, of course. It will be at the one place where you can perfect your vain visage to the masses and I will stumble in quietly and sit in the back with my scarf still twisted around my neck, ready to leave at a moment's notice, especially when you deem it necessary to lock eyes with me. You always were so good, were you not?

I do not want you to see me looking so hollow. In fact, I do not want you to see me at all, and I do not want to see you.

I cannot wait for the moths to chew holes in the thick curtains that hang low in my sockets. When those threads finally give way and I can see clearly again, I sure as hell will not be looking for you.