It’s when those scars start to bleed again,
When old wounds come back to life,
When the flesh around your ribs contract,
Sucking the very bit of air you’d hoped to get in,
The air that would help you not drown,
Like weak ships engulfed by the monstrous ocean.


The masochism doesn’t help.
Nor do the teas.
Nor do conversations laced with laughter,
Lift the freight clouding your little mind.
Behind closed doors, your face is wet,
The soreness in your chest worsens.


Each day, you tell yourself today will be different.
Each night, you promise yourself tonight is the last.
The hours pass by, consuming your resilience,
Sending you crumbling when darkness materialises.
Your misery taunts you as you close your eyes,
Dancing the dance of despair.


‘Tis only slumber that sets you free,
Pulling away from the dread,
Releasing you to an abyss of imagination,
Where everything works,
And the tears come from howling too hard,
And your stomach hurts till you can’t breathe.


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