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It is becoming stronger this ocean of black within my mind. Waves of dark are rising higher and I fear the treacle of depression will fill my throat, choke and kill all that I am. Strange that the need to die has been battling the will to live since she was five. Small children should not wish to drink iodine or jump in front of a train or off a high building. Shivering in the winter air made raw by the indifferent river, she waits with her father as the train approaches. It is a tearing of the nerves, a tiger ripping at the mind, burning as the train approaches. She grabs onto the billboard trying to ground herself. Clutching the dark green frame frozen, caught between conflicting urges, she settles the smiling mask into place. Inside, the scream grows louder, the piercing noise blocking the memory. When the train stops, she steps up into its car, swallowed by her beast. I watch her in my mind And fight off the tears.
Still working on the "confessional" poem. Getting closer, but Sylvia Plath I'll never be!
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