Breath



I was scrolling through the lives Of people I’d never even met For the umpteenth time Without even realizing it The heavy melancholy of a forgettable weekend Sat in my chest like the damp of an oncoming sickness I felt silly for wanting to tell someone I wasn’t feeling great And felt even worse when my attempt Was laughed off as self-inflicted Thoughts that weren’t my own swirled In the dark corners of my mind Like thick snowflakes Which were unsure of where to land Sadness chooses me Like when the lights come on At the end of a Saturday night Another relationship fades into memory Failing to make me feel anything but broken Self-destruct is not a setting exclusive To James Bond films Old romanticised notion For the type of thing That has never existed Keep a gazelle-like mind caught In the headlights of unrealistic expectation I call it off before it gets so deep That I feel I might be drowning But there has never been any water And I’ve just been holding my breath.

 

Author's note: Daragh Fleming is a 26 year old author from Cork in Ireland. He has two published collections of short stories, and also writes stream of consciousness poetry. His writing style is conversational and draws on personal experience to explore a variety of themes.

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