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By NineMuses, Pelham, NY

The force of it strains,
again trying to pull my breath
out from under me. A mad
jerk of the dead weight
demands a tribute of tears;
bursts my lungs open.

No gates are left open,
though I strain
to tear
away with steady breaths
an impossible weight..
Am I mad?

Surely they’re mad
at me, for splitting myself open,
for saying I cannot move, to wait.
Always wait. I have a streak, a strain
of dark that takes breath
and leaves tears.

Soft are the tears
and maddening.
With a flicker of lights, my breath
flees to spaces more open,

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