My spirit was the house burning down.
Strong, quiet, beautiful, and stable.

My family was the flames.
Creeping into every crevice I left unguarded or unprotected.

My mind was the child inside.
Locked alone in a room, screaming for help.

I knew to get on the floor and hide myself away from the flames because smoke rises. I stayed there for as long as I could, telling myself to stay calm and to not panic. Help would be on the way.

But help never came.

I fought for my lungs to work. I fought for my life. I fought for hope. But like all fighters, I grew tried.

With every inhale, I knew what was happening to me. I became witness to my own death. The carbon monoxide filled my lungs and turned them black as my now unbeating heart.

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