Sorry For Caring
I'm no longer afraid of the dark journey of the basement stairs.
Just the part where I lay awake on my hard, spring mattress.
Making constellations with glow-in-the-dark butterflies on my ceiling.
So tense, something must give before I give in.
Adding breathing nerves on to stress.
This town is my jail cell.
Caring is my crime.
My sentence is honesty for 4 more years, with good behavior.
I lay here on my bed.
Strumming the pillow with slender fingertips as I stare into the dark, dark white ceiling.
Save me and my last breath,
invisible hero.
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