this is the hole we go through
this is the whole of what we go through
over and again and once more for good measure
outside of measurement the frustration is metered
the discussions the disgusting arguments
the limits of who we are are and what we choose to go through
in the fall out of it all
the flowers grow and we admire them
no time to stop and smell them
the rock cools and the ropes tighten around the neck
i am slipping off the chair in exhaustion my feet turn red
the rope burn is ignored the smell of jute fades
the lights go out when you hit the switch
i can move in one direction: down
this sickening is the quickening
take me seriously take your hands off my throat
i hold a cracking smile as the door closes
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