The Air We Left Behind - By Shannon Brown

A sudden shift of gravity.

Hands like iron, heavy on my skin,

Taking everything from the outside in.

No warning. No permission. Just the weight.

And the air becomes a door he chose to slate.

​I fought the grip, I clawed the dark,

But the room was fading, spark by spark.

My chest is screaming, a hollow cave,

Is this a bedroom or is this a grave?

The cold reality rushes into my head:

I am going to die here, in this bed.

​And then the static starts to clear,

And everything I love is suddenly right here.

A flash of light before the screen goes dead,

The sweetest things replacing all the dread.

They were my invisible crew,

Tethering me to the light as the world went black and blue.

​I see my mom, the quiet grace,

The safety written on her face.

I see her eyes, that perfect blue,

Holding onto me as I fall through.

​I hear my dad, a sudden break,

The booming laugh he used to make.

It echoes loud against the chill,

Spinning the room that's growing still.

​And then the small things start to fade,

The gentle noises that we made,

The familiar snort of my little pug,

Like a distant, warm, familiar hug.

​My world is slipping.

The edges fray.

He keeps on moving as I drift away.

A quiet surrender to the quiet room,

As the blackness turns into a womb.

​You took my breath, you took the light,

You thought you won the world that night.

But the voices I heard as the consciousness fled?

They are the reason I am standing here instead.