Big open spaces, big open spaces.
This chant spills from taut lips
hanging on constrained breath.

It’s not real, it’s not real.
This chant sends hands to cover eyes
wide in fear of still blank spaces.

He can’t hurt me anymore, he can’t.
This chant brings arms up to cover
once bruised faces fresh with phantom pain.

Don’t look down, don’t look down.
This chant steadies trembling feet
walking over fears now conquered.

It has to get better, it has to.
This chant loosens the noose
wrapped tight around the jugular.

I’m still here, I’m still here.
This chant is whispered when
the water recedes and the sun returns.