Pressed

I felt the air getting heavy,
as if life was
pressing me down.
Between the sky
and the ground,
I stood no chance
so I let them take me.

I spread my petals,
those rubied edges,
perfect and crisp
turned my neck, slightly,
ready
to be pressed for posterity
between the wood
and the paper.

As the last slip of light
yanked away from me
I knew I couldn’t bare
those bolts being turned
tighter and tighter. So
I pulled out the screw,
the loosest one I could find,
and did away with it.

I woke up slow, rattled,
pressed my toes
against the crook of the stair
as one by one
I began to descend.

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