Plastic Tumbler

To fear. To pain. Cheers to all the things that keep our hearts contained. And that wretch in the mirror. "Smiles don't suit you, dear." Apathy's awful, but I wonder if she's right as I stretch my face muscles before bed at night. And I want my life back. I'd die a hundred times over for peonies and pyramids to cross my path before I'm returned to my place in the dirt. And I don't know... I just don't know what to do when she stirs these abrasive thoughts by hand and I haven't the strength to open the mascara tube. If I'm going to raise my glass to self-pity, perhaps I should raise a plastic tumbler instead.