It creeps up slowly like a sinking sunset.
Like tainted water being soaked up at the roots, I don't realize that it has seeped in until it reaches my chest.
By then it is already tugging my smile to a frown, stealing the shine in my eyes and weighing me down.
Most days, the poison can be drained by the presence of another
An extra hand to close the wound, the more significant weight of a cuddle to know I am real
But I never know who or where this comfort will come from
One day comfort may never come at all
If it never comes, will this sickness stretch pat my lungs and suffocate the logic of my brain?
Will it be my end, with my own hands?
The universe has been so merciful, protective even
Comfort has always arrived, like gravity or magnetic pull
Comfort comes to drain the poison from my roots exactly as needed
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