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|SEVEN MINUTES UNTIL OUR DEMISE

{"Seven minutes left; the insistent buzz in my skull would never abrogate, it preserved on being continuously strenuous. 
My whacks on the veneer of the tiles went unheard of as my entirety was virtually omitted; flouted. My eyes were swollen shut every dawn that I roused up, as the day progressed I would limp towards the lavatory, to freshen myself up, the vehemence would expropriate me, and I felt my chest heave as I excused myself. The mirror was dark, stricken with recognizable anguish as I was. 
His voice would currently plague me, heckle me as if saying, ricocheting through my indisputable flesh as it bristled up at the reminder of whom I effectively was, existed as; passive-aggressive. 
Robust of devotion, my declaration went silenced. Aggressive, too passionate, too spirited, too thoughtful, too devoted, too vastly. 
Guilt devoured me at my gullibility. How I believe everything that flees the maws of others, how much I desire to be convinced of whatever pledges they omit too; I heed it as true. I jab my fists against the carpentry; against my will. And my nails dig into the soft yet intense, wiry texture of it. It pricks in between my fingernails as they evolve and shaded overtime at the shredding of my own, flesh. 
My avowals of erratic trepidations crept up like the grotesque being camouflaged underneath our mattress; how could she even feel the guilt ringlet like a chord through the stairways of woe? 
My ponderous introspections are reminiscent of that of an accordion, it racks and extends, then shuts itself in prosperity; in a self-defensive atrocity. My capes cover my entire face and I slide down the kiosks; unsanitary, unsafe, yet scarcely comforting in its righteousness. 
I am chucking the sluggish metiers onto the floor; and coating them with my sarcasm so everything comes to be suppressed, we grudgingly tell the fortes as if they were sheer anecdotes, interpretations of our preadolescence. 
However, I wasn’t the sole one who felt the whiff of reality go even further away like the ecosystem that was out of touch. My tarnished memories make their way back, fleeting into me; as a fundamental rather than the busted pieces of my nature. 
Seven minutes, before you perish, your intellectual cycles every single moment you have accounted to, gone through, whether joyful or dull, whether it was your first panic episode or last, whether it was the first juncture where you rode your bicycle without the training wheels and your mother equipped a standing ovation at your first triumph; stealthy, steady. Steady, be stable, breathe, just breathe, there exists not a dog or a brick lying against your chest, no arms are coiling around your neck, and there is not a rope clamped around it even if it feels as if its likelihood has soared through the sky; a shooting star. 
There are not seven minutes left to, reprogram your existence, file through the remembrance folders, and seek what you have been yearning, longing for your whole life. There are not seven minutes left; you are alive in a wholesome yet inadequate way, emotions are temporary if you believe that it is, and another day will break through, 
dusk till dawn we believe in; 
solely to prove to you that you have the ability to, just breathe, inhale exhale. 
Our finger traces the adhesive in between the ruptures of the tiles, and we let the cold gust of air shoot through our flesh; 
we are not wholly alive until we are loved."}
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