Applause.
Cheers.
Smiles and thumbs up for the progress I have made.
You say I have got better.
You say I am becoming stronger.
Don't say that.
I knocked the same door again.
Yes, yet again.
You aren't proud of me now, eh?
Here I lay on the floor.
Headache creeping in like it does.
Outbox full.
Last night's story painted on pillow in the black of mascara.
Doorbell rings.
I stumble my way through sherds of glass and strewn memories and open the door.
Self-pity says hi.
Pride at her heels, clutching at a fresh wound on its forehead.
'You hit it last night.' Self-pity says disdainfully.
I find no words for an apology.
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