̶ ix. IT'S WHEN BREATHING HURTS THE MOST.
i wish i remembered the moment my innocence was stolen from me. like a thief who got away, the world draped it's reality over my shoulders and ever since, i haven't been able to brush it off. the weight of it all compresses itself on to my chest, my rib cage sore, my lungs barely filled with the oxygen they need. i want to scream, but i stay silent. in the corner of my bedroom, my shadow mocks me, my anxiety bellowing as i try to leave the sheets i had been wrapped in for days.
march fourth, two thousand and fourteen, i stared at an image that wasn't me. the reflection bounced off a villain not even she could find hope within. it was two twenty-one in the morning. the purple under her eyes turned a violent blue if she stared long enough, she couldn't help but blur her vision as she began to weep one last time.
that day, a girl named april was supposed to perish. she wanted it all to end so badly, a small thirteen year old who still had the future to see almost swallowed a bottle of what she labeled hope. she was so tired, she was ready to spend an eternity asleep in a wooden, bolted shut coffin.
but she lived, for some odd reason she sits here typing this now.
yet most nights, she wishes she wasn't.
YOU ARE READING
soon.
Poetryxvi, april. (i). cotton mouth with a heavy heart. © playlist poetry h.r. : #47