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Living
I lie awake as the flashbacks dance on my forehead.
The piercing cries of my past life
knock my door.
Trying to ignore their offers,
I toss and turn.
But how much longer must I toss and turn
before they get too bored to pry.
So I sit and I wait and I sit and I wait some more.
But they never come inside.
They get so close to the opening,
but then wait there-
and stare.
Static filling my ears.
Like a pebble falling down a well,
I innocently descend deep into their traps,
not knowing when I'll reach the bottom.
Summiting.
Flailing.
Living.
The pressure pushing down so hard on my chest.
The only air left has been second-handed.
Thrifted
and
hand-me-downed,
from all the people before me.
All the people before me who fell too.
The deeper I fall the lighter I feel.
Weightless.
But not dying.
Free.
Struggling,
but
Living.
Hair flying above me,
Eyes watering from the
black
of their recycled air.
But then I suddenly crash underwater.
Chest throbbing and stinging from the impact.
I keep still as I don't know what lies beneath the surface.
The high ringing sound getting louder now.
One of their hands grips my ankle from the deep,
slowly,
and
painfully
dragging me farther and farther down.
Until I'm at the very bottom.
The bottom of everything.
Now completely stuck,
I stop struggling.
And let it take me.
I slowly open my eyes and I'm back in my bed again.
Hearing their knocks at my door.
Ignoring their offers anew.
So I toss and I turn and I toss and I turn.
But fall in their lies once more.
Crying.
Dying.
Half alive.
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When writing this poem, I tried to grasp that feeling of despair while you fall into nostalgia portrayed as a fathomless well.