your twenties are littered with hangovers and air raid sirensMature

Twenty-three years of failing the same test: I’m underwater, lungs already scorching their way out of my ribs. Your hand is an anchor clasped around my wrist. How many times do I have to learn I can’t breathe for you? 
I am a walking, talking, breathing heartache. It is deeper than bone, it is smaller than the cells that replace themselves over and over, it is louder than the air raid sirens and the fire engines. It took me twenty-four years to tell it apart from the screams. 
My mother used to tell me that what was right wasn’t always the well-worn path and that sometimes people were darker than the shadows playing tricks on my mind. I don’t think I understood that until I was twenty-five and high on your aphotic laugh. 
I was twenty-six by the time I learned that broken hearts fall through our careful fingers as quickly as sand. There is no going back when you’ve curled your fist too tightly in someone else’s chest.

The End

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