water-logged chest.

and each time my chest tightens just a bit more,
thoughts a Gordian knot of horrors
turn it off, please, just turn it off –

reprieve is a paradise, and lost words a treasure
and yet, when I speak, I go only to Hell first.

bloody, I’m bloody
bandages wrapped in barbs and hurt
offering a salve that will eventually
numb me

numb is not alive, though,
and I just want to be alive.

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