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Jan 2013
I can't breathe anymore;
there's a weight on my
chest like a boulder.
I'm numb,
although my ribs
are breaking.
I can hear them
crack, but I can't
feel their splintered
ends in my sides.
I'm drowning;
my thoughts consume me.
They coat my throat like
tar, sticky and black.
They hold down my
tongue, make it
heavy like lead.
I'm suffocating,
hands around my neck,
blue in the face,
red in the lips,
crack and dried up,
a desert in the
winter snow.
I'm bleeding out,
ruby staind,
purple bruises.
I'm singing an
auria,
a muffled hymn,
a cry for help.
Dani Huffman
Written by
Dani Huffman
598
   Timothy
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