6563

If I’m lucky I can
forget the chronic,
tonic clonic beating
in my chest,

the relentless unrest
forging my demise.
Your lies the size of air
fill my lungs.

Will I trip up the rungs
to the high road and
land righthand man to shame?
I feel lost.

Every breath has a cost
that I cannot buy.
Maybe my eyes need hung
out to dry.

What if breathing your lies
and drying my tears
volunteers a breakdown
and I break?

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