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Writer's pictureErin

whistle.

Updated: Apr 9

I hate to say it hurts.


but it does.


my heart has high jacked

a freight train

that's barreling its way

through the cavities

of my chest.


my brain is tied and bound

in barbed wire and rope,

laying across the tracks of my veins -

waiting for the train to hit.

every time it tries to flee, the wire cuts

deeper.


and it does.

the train hits.


it hits at such a speed that every

good memory I have disintegrates

in its wake.


it hits when I laugh,

or think too hard,

or when i'm dead asleep.


it's racing down the tracks,

but there's no end in sight.


the brakes begin to scream

and so do I.

I scream until my lungs

deflate and my voice is gone.


no one hears me, though,

they never do.


the whistle blows too loud.



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