Slipping

By
I see it there.
Four stories in the air.
It strikes fear in the pit of my belly:
I can't think my mind turns to jelly.
I dread the very thought of walking through those doors.
It hasn't been so great since I've moved to these North Shores.

And so I lie.
I feel I want to die.
I become someone I'm not.
The old me begins to rot.
I feel myself being to slip away:
I won't stay here; not one more day.





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