Let Me Be Weak in Your Arms
{"Hands reach out to my entire entity as in response I thrash against my restraints, the ambiance I sucked in suffocated my lungs, and the smoky brume in the enclosure made me convulse rearwards and cough as far as my lungs could conceivably acquire.
Inhale, exhale, the polluted magnitude replenished my insides as the atrociousness crept up to me, the culmination fresh against my cranium as the adrenaline scampered into my arteries and demanded me to bring back the dead; the deceased inside of me.
The stamina surplus dignified when my touch aversion commenced to proceed itself into motion, hysteria filled me with a sense of urgency; I desired to let out a riot yet frivolity came out.
Hands were trekking all over me like a connotation of a city; an intentional attempt to tranquilize me and make me powerless against them.
My back was open and callous; they initiated their procedure, humiliating me, and demoralizing me, to them it was enthralling and mesmerizing; a masterpiece they fed themselves was human fear.
I felt the malady amplify and ricochet into my abdomen,
trapped,
trapped,
trapped inside of my own body. The hands were creeping towards my inlet as they shrouded around, and sucked my whiff out; into the void, nothingness. On that winter night; we cried, we bled, we yearned, we perished, we died, and something inside went extinct.
The revolt against our own selves made us die, a hundred times, a thousand times, hurt spurred inside, the coldness brewed and cremated against our flesh.
Rotting and Decaying; our lowdowns were eternally exposed to the world and we couldn’t haul back; nobody would take us earnestly.
One two three, I count the steps to my expiration.
Four five Six, the picture radiating through my dome was that of my preadolescence, I would run, we would fly as we once did, as far as our steps took us, and we would never look heretofore.
Seven eight nine, it’s time.
Ten, grant the permission and allow me to bring back the dead inside of me, allow me to revolt against society, allow me to rebel and grant us our sovereignty, our freedom. Death demands me to bring back the dead. Let us be free from our restraints, let us flow scarcely through the air as we once did in our childhood, let us not be ashamed when we shed our incisions, let us be powerless, don’t throw it in my face when I…
Please, let me be weak in your arms and break down before you."}
Copyright © Dilara Aydin | Year Posted 2024
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