A type of death ​

I guess you can call it drowning when your lungs no longer know how to function
How to inhale and suck up what’s necessary,
To cleanse your body of its scars and impurities
How to exhale for dare life, lynching your soul of all that’s wrong
Or maybe it’s a cry for help when your lungs’ bleed and asks for aid from your ribs,
How it begs for protection and yearns for loving hands,
As though every hand that grazes over you has come to reap what it did not sow
It could be that drowning is the feeling of your heart beating hard enough for people to hear,
Loud cries of I love you and I’m sorry I hurt you
But the heart can’t drown unless ropes of oppression refuse to let go of your shoulders,
Unless repressed emotions from all the hate and anger swims gracefully to the surface of your throat every time you speak
It might be the eyes that is sinking ten feet under from watching you neglect yourself
How it feeds the hunger of a self hatred that the world caters to
But you can’t drown until you lose control and your body begins to swing to the rhythm of suicidal songs and duck tape kissing your lips,
To capture your prayer of peace.

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