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Rot Slow, Rise Anyway
The bed is soft, familiar.
Not comfort, not really, just known.
A sinking, a settling,
the weight of existing pressing down,
but not enough to break me.
The dishes stack in the sink,
a quiet monument to days slipping by.
My phone buzzes, I don’t check.
The world is moving, but I am not.
Not yet.
And still -
something in my chest tightens,
not in fear, not in regret,
but in recognition.
A shift, a stretch,
a thought that maybe I don’t have to
stay here forever.
I don’t throw off the duvet,
don’t leap into the light.
But I swing one foot over the edge.
A small rebellion,
a promise to the self I’m becoming.
Copyright ©
Lauren Tilley
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