inhale.
Erebus swallows the sunlight, plunging you down
into the thick, suffocating darkness
wrapping your body like silk sheets
dark sheets, not black but dark
dark in the way that the crack in your ceiling was
when you were six, and water damage from the upstairs
broke through the plaster and left a void
it grinned at you, sending shivers of evil down your spine
and it laughed when you screamed for your mom.
exhale.
You are not six anymore.
the ceiling has been patched for years.
static from the TV fills the soulless motel room
you had put it on for the white noise
of garish and noisy cartoons,
hoping they might drown out the silence
but the wind storm outside must have knocked out the cable
because now it is static.
just black and white dots aimlessly filling empty space and time
like you.
inhale.
It has been a long time since you have rested.
when was the last time you slept?
sleeping seems as chaotic as waking,
so it's hard to tell.
is that patter rain?
is it the sink? or a neighbor's shower?
but then again, does it even really matter?
it feels forbidden, yet inevitable that you would wind up here
maybe you should get out while you still can.
exhale.
Who are you?
inhale.
Why are you?
exhale.
Does it matter?
exhale.
Does anything matter?
exhale.
Do you matter?
exhale.
rest, now. the answers will not come.
so forget it.
forget the pain,
the sorrow,
the deliberation.
exhale, and rest forever.
exhale.
exhale.
exh...