I'm crumbling before my own eyes;
My resolve torn between surviving and succumbing
To the darkness that waits patiently inside my soul.
That oh-so-familiar blackness,
Sitting smugly
Rearing its ugly head when
I least expect it,
When I least require it.
In my hour of weakness;
Time of reflection,
It'll whisper words into my mind -
Words that rapidly become fears.
Fear is an anchor.
My spirit plummets further than preconceived plausible.
I look around; I have been here before.
Taunted, reminded of mistakes buried in the past.
Haunted; what stops the past from repeating itself?
My fingers cross;
A cry to the patron saint of my fortune; my fate.
Inhale and exhale,
Breathing in dusty air.
I can't help but chuckle
at the action.
Dusty air bathes lungs
That have for long already gathered dust.
No words spoken; they were not necessary. My inner will has faded.
All I have left now is this blackness.
This blackness robs people of their spirits. Ironic, isn't it?
The only thing I have left will leave me with nothing.
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