Catching up

I'm usually alone when she visits me, my oldest friend. Her face is as white as virgin snow, a stark contrast to the jet black hair flowing from her scalp. Nothing about her is terribly out of place, save for the gaping hole where her heart should be. She has the look of a negligent mother, the voice of a dissappointed father, and the embrace of a jilted lover. Her name is sadness, deppression if you want to be emo about it. We catch up from time to time. She always brings gifts. Painful little boxes adorned with a black bow. Inside are the tools for self destruction: melancholy, doubt, fear, anger, self deprication, and an all encompassing lonliness. In her arms my body runs cold, but my heart pumps my veins full of liquid fire. As always i pray the visit to be short. I close my eyes, and pretend that it's not her lips pressed against mine...