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.