It’s like a slow invisible bleed

It’s like breathing through ice: cold, sharp, and painful

It’s like the driest desert with no shade from the sun

It singes the soul

It’s like walking across broken glass

Or grasping tightly a fistful of thorns

In the end the most descriptive metaphor

Does not come close to it

It is something we each must enter alone

But if we are fortunate

Somebody will be there to hold our hand

Touch our shoulder

Silently, compassionately

Until we break the surface once again

And just breathe


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