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PoetryEarly Twenties

You, downstairs asleep
like I wish I could be
I remain up here
lofted in my thoughts.
I am clouded at these heights
and the death defying drop
into a blank dark mind
may kill me.

My hands are cold, skin
pale like porcelain, it is
hard to keep warm, and
hard to even breathe
at these heights I am chilled
bone drawn, stumbling
towards an asphyxiated madness.
I am clawing my way up,

I am begging for absolution.
In my sleepless eyes
I reflect with irises wide
my desperation for forgiveness.
However, I know
your apologies are not soft,
worse than an unloving god
you will watch me suffer.

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