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Compressed.
The weight bares down on every cell
I hear their walls tear, and collapse.
Microscopic destruction.
How can the smallest of things seem so large?
We have been here before, my cells and I.
Pain measured in nerve, and in membrane.
The mind chases itself
into dark corners.
Ice-sharp synapses beg to be dulled.
If receptors could alchemise,
weight into words.
They could tell you how I feel,
but a problem divided, is still a problem shared.
And I have no cells left to sacrifice.

© Kellie Pickering 2013

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