My existence sits heavily on my chest —
Pulling at me, strangling me, suffocating me.
I breathe in through my bones and ruminate at my rest,
All the machinations of the end that lie hollow upon my wake.
I can feel my skin stretching, creaking against my tendons
As I, not of this space, ponder my furtive passings.
Everything is heightened, intense, and shit, what does one have to do to cease this choking hold?
I call upon the ethers, the universe, and breathe.
That’s all I’m allowed to do —
Where my assurances lie.
I have nothing but this dream,
My dream,
This existence
As it sinks its claws in
And I die each time I wake,
Faced with another moment of the rising and settling of my chest.
I can make a playground of this.
I know.
But where’s the fun really, if you’re the only one fucking around?