Layers of narratives piled atop my
wooden table like books waiting to be read.
I push it aside, letting it fall into a bottomless pit,
constantly turning, swirling,
as I sighed and wiped away a solitary loitering tear.
Fear of judgement,
angst, hormones and unknown passions of the body
lined up outside my door as soon
as the metaphorical books were forced to make an exit.
Fear of fear pushed me over the edge into the abyss,
behind the pages.
The knocking grew softer the farther I fell.
Falling is easy. Dilation. Suffocation. Silence.