Hypoxic in Cheaper than Therapy

The need to stain these weathered wood-paneled floors with dark crimson is overwhelming in the early morning hours lined with dark and loneliness. I am battered by waves of unrelenting thoughts and memories. The undercurrent of anguish swells into rapids that drags me under and drowns me in suppressed pain. I am spit out into sea, desperately fighting to break the surface to breathe a moment of relief. But my head is an anchor weighted with the heaviness of my existence, sinking me deeper into never-ending darkness. I am hypoxic. My lungs burn with the trapped carbonic breath and the pressure compresses my head so intensely that I feel as though my skull will implode. Delirium dances before my eyes in small stars like a silvery blade catching the moonlight weakly streaming through the clouded night sky; that glimmer of finality so enticing that my fingertips tingle with temptation.
Time passes by- counted by cars like waves on the busy road outside; crashing forward and retreating into a dull, steady state of white noise.
I finally sheathe it back into its resting place beneath the pillowed mattress pray to drift into sleep.