Some days I feel as if I might come apart really easily.
I hang by a thread. I am made of dust and shadows.
I am the spaces in between, the silence before the song.
I never found April to be the cruellest month, but this one.
Twenty-five years and still the nightmares can terrify as fresh as yesterday.
Today I pitch and yaw crazily, lose my bearings.
Momentarily as I right myself, I wonder at my mind's refusal to forget things I never want to remember.
Would that I could recall an hour of pleasure as vividly.
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