Darkness creeps towards me.
I watch it move across the floor,
it engulfs the deep cracks in the tile.

In my mind, I hear your screams, your accusations
and although I always fight back in real life,
I feel like a conch in these reruns –
something so delicate, with it’s own inner dialogue.

But there are no soothing waves here, only violent crashes.
I picture the white surf foaming and gurgling, erasing the very boundaries of my soul.

And still, the darkness comes.
It always does.

My collarbones are not weak.
They do not stand at attention waiting for you to snap them
like brittle twigs.
And yet, I crawl like a child, trying to escape the latest shadowy corner.

Soon there will be no further refuge
and I will either have to stand up and fight the inner battle,
or give in like I do in retrospective.

My mind chooses the former,
but reason predicts the frailty of my character.

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