The height was supreme
The fall is more extreme now
I can't feel my face
About the Creator
Anna Torres
Iβm a 36-year old wife and mother. I love reading, metal music, and writing. I have bipolar depression and have begun writing again since 2019
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Stockholm Syndrome
I have always wondered how everyone close their eyes without a cure to dream. Without a tourniquet to the head. Do they take you into their arms? Do they wipe your memories? Do they offer amnesia? What do you do in this condition? This abduction is a nightmare. The missing time is mine. The seconds study me. They memorize my false pretenses. There is no relief in the mundane. Just shut your eyes and forget. Iβve been robbed of my clarity. Depriving myself of my own basic needs. Insomnia never stays. It hitches a ride to other vigils. A seizure offers reprieve. Sedatives are temporary. A comatose slumber. A getaway to drowsiness. Iβm alert but not awake. Cautious, walking on eggshells. My idleness lingers. My procrastination has arrived. How can I convince you? That hypnosis has failed. How did we disappear in the night? The theories implant memories. Paralyzing trance. My sleep is dormant and lethargy is me. Iβm in purgatory. I see you clear as day. Give me relief. Give me alleviation and consolation. Intoxicating depressants. Just relax now, itβs time now. A painkiller of dreams. An anesthetic of sleep. Give me release, give me reprieve. Let me go to sleep.
By Anna Torres8 months ago in Poets
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