And it falls out from me.
Pours from my fingertips.
Grief floods the room but I’ve been drowning for a long time.
I cannot contain this.

It’s a fog like carbon monoxide.
Silent.
It wraps itself around your lungs and whispers that this is the only way.
And you lie down, mistaking its vapours for clouds.

It never leaves.
You just get used to breathing poison.