Amygdala [Day 21]

I’ve been told we never forget the mistakes we could’ve prevented,
the lies we could’ve chosen to untell- “make it right, it’s better to make it right-”

inside frozen caves filled with warmth, I couldn’t unspeak my bitterness,
the hurried gestures to unexplain my faults, my shortcomings, fell short

when my hands physically held my lips together, the life kept slipping out of between them,
leaving behind hollowed cheeks: even more hollow felt the bones I couldn’t touch or reach

sometimes, the screeching of my voice would mellow down into a quite lull: you could make out
someone was breathing, very silently perhaps, intently lost in thought, or possibly devoid of any

and sometimes, I’d scream to unhear the constant monologue, swiftly tumbling back and forth
from right, wrong, nothing, while my ears buzzed and my hollow bones, empty but heavying

untook every unspoken word I took back, swiftly hung it from the palate of my mouth- un-unapologetic
in its persistence to be the cause of all wrong, all right, all quite mine-mine-my fault-

when hysteria jumped onto the bandwagon and proceeded to inform the crowd of how
untrustful I must surely be of myself, quite apprehensive about the ordeal of existence

and swiftly, undeniably “make it right, it’s better to make it right” wasn’t something you
could tell me, because everything was wrong, needing fixing, and conveniently, all that was left

was an unbelievable representation of me: a woman, a child, a life- simply unright, unexisting.



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