FreeWrights Peer Review™

What is this, the feeling that fills our bones like marrow?
Fingers pressed against the glass as trees sway under cloudy skies.
While the world outside is out and about,
And the day goes on and on,
Her eyes painted red with indignation and melancholy,
Wander across raindrops and a cloud-covered sun.

The world is gray and colour is obsolete.
With eyes half open and a cold heavy heart,
She likes to think that she's doing just fine.
But we all know she's just pretending,
Like some old black and white movie from 1932,
Where the actors are as fake as the parts they're playing.

Her medulla oblongata is turning to mush and she's starting to go insane.
The steady pattern of breathing has come creeping to a halt.
Pressing a hand on her chest, she feels the soft beat quickly slowing down.
Sinking to the floor, she lets her quivering head rest gently on the white carpet.
Do you think she'd even care,
If she died right there?

Welcome to FPR and thanks for jumping right in with some posts. Personally, I think you could have the first stanza be a poem all to itself. The rest of it starts getting too mushy, gives the reader more than needed. That is my opinion, fwiw.
Hope to see more from you.