I blink hard against the darkness.
The air is too quiet,
my heartbeat too loud in my ears.
The dream still clings,
sweat and memory a tight braid
at the back of my neck.
The room is still.
My hand slips between my legs,
ritual reassurance
that no one else is there.
I focus on my ribs,
my skin,
fingertips —
anything
to convince me
I’m not back there again.
Morning will come.
It always does.
But tonight,
I have to remember
how to breathe.
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