leave it all take nothing, but there's always something left

here's wishing i hadn't been born. 

here's wishing memory wasn't a slippery little fish with spines that poke and draw blood and a hook in too deep to pull out without ripping off the jaw. 


i am laying here gasping drowning in the air, ribs heaving gills useless and the dead weight of fourteen atmospheres pressing down. 


i've been reading books about memory, Kundera, Primo Levi, books to slow time, books to vanish into. i'll live in your world please. preferable to this half-life, this gravitas, buried here beneath stones.