This Cruel Book.

Desolate living in ever moving time.

There's not enough for me to latch onto, my grip on the edge slipping quicker than ever before.

I doubt my every movement, my every thought leaving a residue within my heart.

I chew the end of my words into pieces, swallowing them whole.

Hugging my body as it shivers and trembles in remorse for its own existence.

Hope and despair mix in a cruel display of complacency.

Tugging at my insides, I force my will to no end.

Everything feels wrong.

The pages in my book become more fragile as I turn each one.

The numbers along the border blur into dark puddles of ink.

How I wish to set aside the troublesome book for even one moment.