Often

I often die, in pain, in agony.

I often die, quietly,

remembering pieces of me that have been lost for far too long.

I often die alone, in the middle of nowhere.

I often die in company, loudly, gasping for air.

I rarely live.

I rarely breathe in peace.

I rarely feel like the echoes inside are my own voice telling me to hold on.

I rarely live in movement.

I rarely move on my own,

and when I do, it is with remorse.

Soaked in melancholy, I lay myself to dry.

I barely dry before it is time and so I leave home damp, fusty.

I rarely breathe in peace,

because I often smell of regret

and oh so many things that sit still within me.

I rarely let myself live because I often die inside;

literally and figuratively.

I have seen myself die so many deaths, it is hard to see the life staring at me from the mirror.

I hyperventilate when I choke,

I flinch when I burn,

I hold my hand when I feel it grab a knife

and flail my arms when I feel my body fall.

I often see me die a gruesome death.

But rarely does my body stay still in response.