Divorce.

I'm losing myself from eight to three. Getting worse at letting out. Getting worse at getting out. Look and see, it's all right there, clenched in my hand. I'm trying too hard now. So all that comes out are sentence fragments that hardly even make sense in my mind. Sorry about that.

I took all the hurt and the tears and put them somewhere deep under my skin. But every so often I get hit and my skin is pierced and the hurt comes running out of me. I don't want to cry. But a million tears still swim in my body. They're waiting for the outside to strike a nerve so they can strike my eyes. One day I'll let them out. But the timing of it so far hasn't been great. But one day when I'm alone in a room, I'll cry because the outside cut my skin. The outside struck a nerve.
The outside got divorced.