Bring back all my memories of the pain I’ve always felt.
Back to the past—black to the blade.
Blackout in subconscious leaves me weak and stained.
Drained of color.
Subjection to the cold.
Contagious like a disease to those around me.
Separate—I keep myself.
Hard against the grain still pulses through.
Shakes the pane and shards of glass break the surface.
Waves collapse around me and steal my dying breath.
I breathe remorse—immersed within the incarnadine channel—a river imbrued as I plunge below the shallow.
I breathe attrition—regretfully I know, the coldest day in July.
All unraveled and went awry.
I breathe—my one affliction.
I did not die.