I try to count my breaths again
as my throat begins to close-
my eyes become a shade of haze
that is now so familiar to me.
I try not to break again
keep my feet firmly planted
in a place where I can stand up straight
but these knees are weak
and I keep falling over myself.
The breaths I take become shorter
the senses around me wither in number
and the only thing I hold focus on
is the fact I can't breath anymore.
I want to make it stop
the tightening of my esophagus
and the revenge my stomach
has been plotting against me
for what seems like a while now.
The bile hits my lips
a victim to the toilet-
to the images in my mind
that begin to mimic my every fear.
My head is prison get me out of here-
but all I keep feeling is the lack of oxygen
and all that I see is this morning's breakfast.
Repetition isn't always such a good thing
you can find it in more than just my poetry-
you can find it in my memory.
Hollow me out and put someone else inside
this body holds too much destruction
that I no longer want to be the cause of.
Blueprints have become of me-
etched inside this skin
I seek refuge in.
I have mapped out ways
to make myself feel better
but they're only just an outline.
Just an idea I get before everything
becomes too wrecking ball
and not enough rebuild.
These walls are tainted now
you couldn't keep the spray paint away
and this building is nothing like the blueprints.
I am just the wreckage-
not anything like what comes after.
My structure is flawed
and the only way to fix me
is to destroy and rebuild-
and I've already done most of the destroying.
I take another breath
it feels like my lungs are in need of more
in need of something I can't give to them.
They give me life and I cannot return the favor
so I choke on the guilt of the games my mind plays.
It seems I'm not the only one suffering-
so silence has become my only savior.
Everything is fine on the outside
but the structure is flawed
and it's about to crumble soon.
If I were built right in the first place-
I wouldn't be so easy to break.