One of the most noticeable of those dark days was the weight of everything.
The air, with dust that rested heavy on my skin, was a deep viscous fluid as it forced in and out my lungs.
Attached to my feet were these anchors of lead, and my feet dragged behind and cut at the shackles, scaring me into sitting still.
My lungs too, were lined with lead, filled with lead bullets, weighing my chest, my heart down, and I wanted to do nothing.
My eyelids weighed down, and all I wanted was to sleep, to be in the inbetween where we breathe but not live. Sometimes not even that.
And how it took every piece of my strength to get out of bed, to force myself out of my foolish blissful stupor where I can pretend that I don't exist.
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Short StoryRevelations, poems, short stories and three a.m monologues, all as tiny as a post-it
