the frog drinks the toad in to the yellow
swampland swallows the lillies, forcing the flowers beneath the muck
taking the air into the gas, the slow rise of the quicksand like a lyre
the rumbling breath of the forest and the creeping mosses
inching over the days, sticking into the walls, breaking apart the rock
the swamp makes her think of suffocation
like the earth is drowning itself, choking on its own spit and slowly unravelling the dark they curl tighter
the arms around the chest and the scraping of the chin hairs like wiry toothpicks on her neck–she wants the illusion of freedom
the soft brush of others’ eyes, their hand’s passing her legs, a removal–the certainty of falling traded for the certainty of drowning, preferring the lightness of air to the heaviness of breath, the yawn rattles
the dawn and it is breaking the sun to pieces, the sheets
constrict and she is greeted by the fear of the sameness, the bare feet in the shower, the cold soap on her spine.

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