18.5

The feeling of asphyxiation is warm,
a dull thud pulses in the tips of my fingers.

Nausea and exhaustion plague me,
washing over me like crashing waves.

My face is a blank canvas which
nobody wants to paint, or look at.

Holding back tears is hard
when they want to cause a flood.

Heart is beating slowly
but only because it has to: it doesn’t want to.

A thousand years will pass
and I will stay the same.

My mouth forms a thin line,
as if trying to keep these words inside.

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