Longer than I admit

I’ve pushed it away so deep down that it’s past my guts. Crunched it down below my feet so I can trample on it. At times, I float on it ever so softly, barely letting my heels graze its surface. Other times I stomp heavily, making the earth quake beneath me. But you see, it’s impossible to deny it. I’ve been exposed by a single person search party trained in illuminating the dark. She saw that I’m not as hollow as I want to be because you’ve left remnants that are nearly impossible to see unless you open me up and shine a flashlight into my chest cavity. There it is. There’s the switch that you’ve left on, slowing draining, and the only way I can turn it off is to reach in past the cobwebs and dust. I’ve stuck my hand inside, and there’s no pulling it out until I say so. I am here and I amready. I have been been ready for longer than I admit.