Situated between reminiscences and the pinching pain of this cold air, my heart lays still in the serenity of the night.
I should’ve foreseen that I wouldn’t survive this ordeal.
You ask me where I go to when I’m gone with you before you bring the glass closer to my lips. Help me swallow down this drink.
1, 2… stop me. 3, 4… you don’t.
It only takes a second for your skin to touch mine.
The guilt is taking over.
The agonizing shame is building up and sinking in.
Don’t touch me.
Clenched on your coat of umber, I muster equivocal words to chant insensibly.
In a motionless state, my body is screaming “free me from this feeling,” but
I only open up when I’m intoxicated — unaware of the feelings I spoke through to you.
“Breathe.” I can hear you.
“Breathe.” I’m not here.
It’s pitch black.
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