Sink. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

Sink

This room is a tomb.
Cold as death.
I lie still, pretending,
but I know —
the monsters don't sleep.
They just wait.
And I've stopped running.

Guilt chews through me,
slow, rotten,
like maggots beneath skin.
My breath catches —
tight, tight —
a noose of my own making.
Anxiety grips my throat.
I choke on silence.

I did this.
Again.
Same grave. Same shovels.
Same lie that I'll climb out.

But I won't.
Not this time.

Cracks form.
Hairline at first.
Then breaking.
Fracturing.
Collapsing.
The hourglass spills its last grain
and I don't bother flipping it.

I can't eat.
I can't speak.
Everything decays eventually —
but this?
This ends before its time.
I can feel the rot crawling faster.

I've seen this day before.
Felt it like déjà vu carved into bone.
A prophecy whispered
by shadows I once trusted.

How long until I let go?

I don't know how.
I just keep digging,
deeper,
until the soil buries me back.

And as I write,
my life pours out in black ink,
slipping from this world
into something colder —
something wet
and endless.

And I am the boat.
Splintered.
Sinking.
Already gone
beneath the waves. MIRAK