I feel the tendrils creeping in
starting to erode, with tiny little pin holes,
my glowing paper lantern heart.
But this puckish trickery makes me doubt
the subtle dips, the gentle downward tugs.
I’ve walked this path before, ignoring all the signs,
until white walled halls had to pull me back out,
when I was so lost in my abyss
that bloody wrists and a mouth full of pills felt like hope.
Swore I’d never befriend grey, can’t-get-out-of-bed days again,
yet I can feel that draw seeping through,
so close the hairs on my arms sway and rise.