The only way out is through,
I tell myself over and over,
trying to drill the fact into my brain.
The only way out is through,
I say as I soldier on,
one foot in front of the other;
one more year, one more month,
one more week, one more day.
One more day.
One more day.
The pile I carry on my back gets bigger, heavier
it gets more insistent, more demanding,
it shifts and stretches
until I no longer just carry it,
my whole existence is controlled by it,
it shifts and stretches,
I recoil and drawback until I'm no longer my own
One more day.
One more day.
If anything I've become a phantom
pulled around by a thread that only gets thinner,
an empty shell of a person who used to be something
but no longer is.
The incessant thoughts in my head keep pushing and pulling,
they swarm around me like ravenous animals,
waiting for their prey,
like waves breaking on the shore,
they never stop.
I move in the world precariously,
the simplest things have become incomprehensible,
words and sentiments go through me,
unfathomable and distant.
I've become fluent in ways to desensitize myself,
my drawers and cupboards are always full,
with one substance or another,
as long as my mind is numb.
Bitterness comes easy
when all I can think of is
the years stolen from me,
the days I've spent confined and silenced,
Breathing, on the other hand, is not an easy feat
when claustrophobia looms over me,
like a heavy concrete cage,
in the most open spaces.
My body shuts down,
my lungs threaten to collapse,
"if we don't get out soon we're doomed",
they both declare.
One more day.
One more day.
I tell myself,
the only way out is through.
