im doing it. no hands. i'm breathing.
with each intake filled with knives and thorns,
my lungs, polluted, shut down.
now im opening up my chest instead,
im taking it all in.
i feel it now -
the knives.
the thorns.
resuscitate me not with fists, pumps & a stranger's strange breath.
give me the daggers, glass and thorns.
fill my lungs, through my chest, with what's real.
i'll choke it down and exhale it out for the earth to recycle
and then breathe it in again, and again until i only breathe what's real.
i can finally feel. i can finally breathe. i can finally move.
there was no cure, no resuscitator. just choking, suffocating.
who knew self-preservation looked like dying,
and feeling pain was suddenly being alive?
"there's no hiding anymore, i can't return to who i was before.
this revolution's not easy with a civil war on the inside. take the wheel",
she said, "as i wander. i can finally breathe - I'm suddenly alive".
-me
