The Longing (The Pit)

The Longing (The Pit)

It starts with the whisper of light —

a thought that maybe this time,

I’ll crawl out.

Maybe this time,

I’ll stand up, breathe air,

remember what warmth feels like.

But the pit laughs.

It knows my name too well.

It’s Buffalo Bill in the basement,

it wants to see me squirm,

to beg for lotion,

to sing to the walls like they care.

Every time I reach for the edge,

the hose comes on —

cold, relentless, soaking me back

into the same old darkness,

the same sick ritual:

hope, drown, repeat.

I want out.

God, I want out.

But it wants me —

and it’s jealous,

a lover that chains instead of holds,

that calls itself depression

and feeds on my breath.

There’s a longing so deep it hums —

not for happiness,

just for quiet.

For stillness that doesn’t ache,

for a body that doesn’t flinch

at its own heartbeat.

And when I whisper, please,

the pit whispers back,

you’re home.

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