They ask, do you remember,
but how could I ever forget:
the initial lift of the dread that comes from
a single pink line, never-ending,
unchanging, even if you close your eyes.
The time in between each breath immutable,
you are always panting, always grasping
The porcelain, my headrest
as I watch the blood leave me,
gazing up at my morning star,
one of four against enclosing cages,
with heaving uncontrollable,
begging to make it through the night
My sisters scream it is my choice, and I agree,
but my mind still lingers to time
and possibilities,
and maybe it would have been three?
When I couldn’t breathe, I burrowed
myself deeper into the blankets
hoping to find warmth of protection,
that enveloping, that which is only
present in childhood.
The Past Still Buried by Keana Águila Labra
Royal Rose 