Terror
Is a bed made for you by others
That you alone must lie in
Hidden from view
But destroying you
Pouring lead into eyelids
but quickening restless hearts
An invisible villain who sees your weaknesses all too well
Making sure you only remember all the times you fell

Terror
grabs you by the throat and
refuses to let go
Leaving just enough air to feel the pain
Just enough to remember your shame
It brings your stomach to a boil
but keeps it whirling inside

Terror
grabs you by the throat and
refuses to let go

Terror
Is a bed made for you by others
that you alone must lie in

i am broken
there is a darkness within me that creeps across the underside of my eyelids with each blink

a gnawing fog that doesn't let me sleep

a rising flood that refuses to weep

a burning brand in your chest
A yearning to be free from the weight, even if just for a moment. Even if those moments are stolen in the darkness, shame-filled secrets that scorch your hands and your spirit.

Scars that clearly show a battle has been fought, but no one can be sure it has been won.

A tightening grip around your throat that you wish would just finish the job and put you out of your misery

A plea like Giles Corey for "more weight"

/this wicked unrest threatens to tear your soul in two

...but silently, lest anyone should hear./

...breathe in.
                      ...breathe out.
                                                  ...breathe in.

It seems so simple. If we want to live, we need to engage in these basic, life-sustaining movements. Breathe, eat, drink, sleep. We cloud our minds with fears about those moments in-between... in the spaces we aren't quite sure how to handle.

Our breathing loses its depth. Our hearts begin their panicked sprint and our hands rattle with uncertainty. As our minds clog with doubt and apprehension, we begin to back pedal. Do we really needed to follow each exhale with an inhale? Could I hold my breath a little longer and do a little more? Could I die a little bit to live a little more? How far can our bones and spirits bend before they snap? How much death can I pump through my veins before the cardiac arrest of an engine without oil spills the contents of my well-maintained façade on the front porch of death itself?

...breathe in.
                      ...breathe out.
                                                  ...breathe in.

The emptiness of a self-imposed shallow grave pierces the best laid defenses of gold, glory, and gluttony. Previously plump posturing deflates to reveal sunken chests and dreams. Ordered beats give way to palpitations pushing the walking dead to, "speak now or forever hold your peace."

...but calloused hands and white-washed souls hold nothing more than fermented fears. Like a deceitful craftsman, fearing the testing of his work by the flames, we long for the warmth of the fire but fear our long-cherished idols will crumble to irredeemable ash.

...breathe in.
                      ...breathe out.
                                                 ...breathe in.

As the soot coats our weary lungs, a muted wave begins to lap at our roots.

...breathe in.
                      ...breathe out.
                                                 ...breathe in.

Joints creak back to exuberant life; the coarse rust giving way to polished jewel. Bread and wine flush the toxins and clear our eyes. Our searching hands at last placed in the rescuing wound we so long feared.

Wretched gives way to, "worthy."

...breathe in.
                      ...breathe out.
                                                 ...breathe in.