Panacea.

My lungs fill with water,
I am struggling to breathe,
but instead of fighting,
I hold my breath, then count to three.

Wrestling my demons underwater,
darker down here than above ground.
I hear the great big sea around me,
but still feel the disconnect.

I am no stranger to conflict,
born to battle to prove I deserved a place.
Unfair though for you to ask me,
when I am not the reason why I am here.

Caged in imaginary wire,
tangled in invisible thread.
Cautious even as I kept playing with fire,
burnt to a crisp but barely dead.

Panacea could not cure me,
I am as real as porcelain.
As I float in and out of consciousness,
one treacherous side of me remains living.

Button eyes refused to see reality,
in denial of our failure to survive,
bordering on suicidal,
despite the doctor’s opinion that I am fine.

My body can no longer create moisture,
parched now from a history of crying sheep.
Crystalline and diamond teardrop shapes,
form in my tear ducts instead now then crash into my cheek.

I refused to pledge allegiance,
to this empty vessel I have become.
More numb than anesthetized gums,
laughing gas is not even fun.

It’s so easy for you to leave me,
back here where you once also belonged.
But how much more can I pretend,
it’s you and not me that keeps me here.