pile of vomit

"The Fire" (Papa Roach)
Every time I see him with her, I want to run a mile. When she lays her head on him or touches his shoulder, holds his elbow, a mile, a mile, a mile. I figure that by the end of every night I have a queue of 50 miles and a gallon of tears. I want to run those miles and cry those tears and collapse and fold into a ditch far away, dehydrated and stupid. Smiling is like crying. Laughing is like running. I’m no longer sure that him liking someone other than me is better than him just being "not interested." Him with her means I almost don’t exist. Oh, because dying sounds better than this! Anything sounds better than being me when I am not her!