The Past Still Buried by Keana Águila Labra

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.

*Previously published in Rose Quartz Magazine

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