I too shall pass, but when?

I feel like a crease,
A brutal blunder on an almost perfect marksheet.
A cold scar on your warm skin,
A borrowed dress, now stained with a wine spill.
I know that I breathe,
Realizing the frivolity of every second I heave.
I feel like a bad poem on an crumbled sheet,
A broken bone that might never heal.
I'm sad, but it will be alright.
I'll count the the seconds, till it'll be alright.
©tazeen