Some days I used to cry,
my lungs screaming for the oxygen that it was not receiving,
my hands clenching at my chest, crescent-shaped marks etching into my palm,
my silhouette a twitching, hunched, blur.
Some nights I used to dream,
guilt and shame and sickness and hate haunted my dreams,
imaginary claws and teeth sinking into my throat, and tearing
me away from my sanity.
I'm better now.
The red crescent moons have faded like my memory of that face I saw in my dreams,
I use words like crying more in past tense and breathing has ceased being a voluntary action,
and even though I'm not sure where I stand admist my world of ever-shifting darkness,
I'm okay;
because I've seen now
that even at the bottom of my pandora's box
there is hope.