One by one they trace their way down the curves and wrinkles to the end of the line. Then like lovers torn apart by circumstance, they commit to tragedy, falling to their deaths to be wiped away by the Kleenex of memory. The Blood rushes through his veins with a new drug this time. Beating so fast he can feel the tiny rushes as the vessels pop. The room spins as time stands still, waiting for the water to boil over.
Knuckles turn white as fingernails dig deeper into self destruction.
His brain shuts off and lets his body do the talking. Dust and moths and cobwebs and rips and tears and holes and being told you're not wanted anymore. You used to be something. You used to be good enough but now you're thrown into a box or shoved under the bed. Hoping maybe one day your worth will be realized.