I use the wall for support as I make my way towards the front door where I had dropped the container of soup. When I reach it, I stare down, feeling hollow.
It’s spilled all over the floor.
I sink to the ground, my body moving of its own accord, and I scoop some if it up in my hand and drink it. I do it two times before feeling the taste of my own tears mixing in it. That’s when I give up, leaning against the front door.
My injured hands cover my mouth as I scream and scream, loud sobs leaving my mouth as I curl into a ball.
I’m crying over the spilled soup, my dinner. And yet, I know that’s not the real reason.
My heart hurts. It aches like someone is shredding it into pieces.
Why aren’t I ever good enough to be loved? Why can’t I have somebody who wants to hold me and comfort
