corrosive confusion

the girl's palms are sweaty. she's feeling the anxiousness of the inevitable-about-to-happen: she's about to let them down. her eyes are not moist. more like sad. she's desperately looking for a reason to put on the table and make at least a part of what she's feeling about herself, real. but there's nothing around to reach for. she reaches for her purse, but it's so heavy as if it's filled with millions of razorblades that would slash her skin open if she looked inside. she drops it on the floor. her heart is pounding and the purse is falling in the slowest motion possible. it refuses to touch ground. she gasps. the purse is in the air. she hits it with her right foot, but it's like hitting an invisible rubber deck. she looks out the window and back at the purse: it lays dead on the floor. even gravity is making its point. she puts her palms together. they smell like failure and feel like ice. she blows them hot hoping to melt them. the only thing that seems to melt is her reason. she takes out her phone and starts texting: i've been.. (too obvious) - she deletes it. puts the phone on the sink. the tap is running. now there's a purpose, a way and a means - all reaching the same goal: function. hard concept for a dysfunctional girl. she looks in the mirror. this pair of green eyes staring back at her are not hers. the mirror liquefies together with that image. her heart is a prisoner screaming behind rib bars. her pain is dumb, but she can hear it. the rumors are true: she's dead.