her problem

no aplogies offered from days for silences which choke and strangle. words stuck in her throat, borne of pain, data, data, data...endless ticker. spaced out she watches the plots like far off constellations or are they crows and vultures circling above rotting carrion. waiting for time to pass. if she could study the root system, or the network of arteries and muscle; the mind needs the intricacy of words for the love of its sanity or perhaps intoxication is more suited for skimming the details of such times. as night turns over in sleep, it strains at the seams, the quiet ache, hurts of loneliness, a solitary pain which nobody understands or cares to.