terror of reawakening
my waking nightmare.
The thought I must oppress
to move forward, yet, still,
the thought I should confront
to carry on. To look past,
or to press through.
Either way the pain's there still,
and in my dreams it takes
unobstructed strength,
unchecked reality.
I write to remember
what I want to forget.
If time is the only
panacea to this condition,
it feels rather like a
slow acting poison.
In the end, her indifference
is venom in my veins.
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