So the demon is once again on my shoulder
Telling me again and again
Of the weightless softness of nothingness
And of how, in fact,
No matter how wonderful these
Odd compensations
They are still
Compensations, unable ever to be more.
I'm so tired of hearing
"It will get better", when
Even when it does,
It never stays that way.
Right now,
My breath itself makes me anxious
I long to put my
Diaphragm to rest
No
Nothing new has happened
There is no fresh injury
This is just the way it is
This is how it has always been.
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