I’m still.
I’m still breathing.
Choking down sobs night after night but
I’m still
Here. I’m still
Breathing.
How is it that the world force feeds you
Pain and sorrow
And you’re still,
You’re still here
Breathing?
The scars on my wrist, they strangle my veins.
These scars,
They’re a sickly kind of white now,
Not noticeable to the common eye,
Faded but bleeding beneath the surface.
My heart can’t handle anymore,
When will life stop feeding me this pain?
But I’m still here,
Still breathing.
Air keeps us alive,
Our lungs build us up,
We breathe in.
And we breathe out.
It’s a rather simple process, natural.
But why is oxygen the one thing killing me,
Betraying me.
Why is it that every time the anxiety sneaks its way in
Trapping me in my own mind,
That the air escapes me
And I’m gasping for help,
Screaming for understanding,
Wishing for a deadline on my life.
Why is the oxygen leaving,
Stay. Please.
I’m clutching onto my body,
Begging it to stop,
But the room keeps spinning
Why is the room spinning?
My lungs feel empty.
How am I still breathing?
Breathing.
Why am I still breathing?
The alcohol seduces my blood,
And the smoke dances in my lungs,
Clouded over,
Breathing in and out.
In
And
Out.
It simplifies.
The constant brawl, the racing thoughts,
My breathing.
It narrows down to the easy.
So I take cup after cup,
Downing drink
After
Drink,
Dirtying my lungs with smoke,
Glazing my mind over with matter,
I am
Numb.
But I’m still here.
I’m still
Breathing.
My mom never told me that sometimes the sadness would take away the vibrancy in my eyes,
And smirk back at me with darkness.
She never told me that sometimes when I rolled out of bed in the morning, I wouldn’t recognize myself,
She never told me that winter would welcome the coldness into my heart.
All she ever told me was
“it’s just a phase.”
We all go through phases, right?
This isn’t a phase mom,
I’m not a clock ticking,
Waiting to strike midnight and for a new day to begin,
My chapters don’t flow easily into the next,
Taking deep breaths,
In
And
Out.
It doesn’t fix the pain.
Breathing won’t make it go away.
But here I am.
I’m still breathing.
This isn’t a phase.
- Becky Harrison : Certified klutz, free spirited, go-get-em goof ball. Loves writing poetry and the beach. Strong believer in bucket lists.
