the soft thrum of pulse underneath the chest;
it spells a mantra, on repeat.
i want it to be better, i don’t want to get better.
there are floods and avalanches in the veins,
in every breath.
fight it or drown. fight it or be buried.
inhale the bedroom fumes,
pinch the skin, again and again.
slivers of memories fill peripheral visions,
the single sound of the door closing behind him,
fills the head again and again.
your mind is in the skies, in the clouds,
not here nor there, resting peacefully
unmoving in a field somewhere.
waking in cold sweat, you see storms
and storms, you can’t breathe.
the soft thrum of the heart,
it spells a mantra, again and again on repeat.
i don’t want it to be better, i want to get better.