Whispering Cicadas

by Ashanti Jacobs

 

I am attached to thin, silver threads that cling me to reality
I find my mind drifting, often

I am in a glade
The hum of bees, a constant monotony, comforts and terrifies me

I do not like
The feeling of vulnerability
And yet, I crave it
I yearn for it

The noise haunts me

I try not to be carried along the currents
I fight with fright rampant in my chest

I am gone, again
There are times when I feel like I am simply floating
Other times I am sinking— deeper into murky illusions—

It is agony, not having the words
Not having the mind
Not having

Nature brings me peace, but my eyes still sting
My skin is crawling and no matter how hard I scratch and bite

I am gone, again.

 

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