Breathing is hard when phantom hands weave weight within your chest, pulling you down to depths so low you'll never feel at rest. Your eyes may shut and thoughts may drift but one fact remains the same, you've never lived a day post-youth that hasn't brought you shame. You try and try to run away, break the cycle, save the day. Working hard to eat away at all the debt you must re-pay. But in the end you cannot mend the damage in your head, a broken record reminding you you'd still be better off dead.