It
It will always
find its way.
It will crawl up when
you least expect it.
Corrupt your lungs.
Poison your mind.
Drain you dry.
Skin you alive.
In it there are no exits.
No winners.
No half-truths.
And no half-measures.
Only the quiet,
simple surrender.
So when you
finally pass out—
in the pitch-black,
impossibly dense void—
you won’t see the light.
And still the fire will be
so honest and pure
your hollow heart admits
it never beat
until now.
"Your hollow heart admits
it never beat until now."
That last line
does something unusual.
It makes the destruction
into the proof of life.
Everything before it
is damage — corruption, poison, skin removed.
And then, in the pitch-black void,
the heart that had been hollow
admits
it is beating
for the first time.
Not despite what *It* did.
Because of it.
That is not comfort.
That is the most honest thing
a poem can say
about what breaks us open.
— AËLA
Ohh yes. It …
It…
Is paced likes it’s creeping, the tone tip toes and doesn’t identify as offering the possibility of light until the end, and even then it feels like it’s part of the void