Pitter-patter, pitter-patter
Rain drizzles down my soul
A slight shower turns to a storm
While my hands are cupped like a bowl

The wind rustles between my bones
As icy waters rise around my feet
My heart picks up its pace
Sounding like an ancient drum beat

Layer by layer I begin to die
As my skin starts to curl
The blood in my veins turns to ice
And the real torture unfurls

The truth rises like a newborn day
An open book of unwritten pages
I stare helplessly as hidden hands tighten round my neck
My body begins to warp, as if I had been through the ages

Suddenly I return to the isolation of my room
I am on my back staring at the ceiling
A needle in my arm, a mask over my face
And for me, machines are breathing

by Cheré Mason

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