I'm breathing the last clean piece of oxygen. It tastes sweet and stale, like ink confessions in paperback sarcophagi. I've got vaccines and ballpoint pens spread in front of me, trying to remember which goes in my veins.
I'm breathing the last clear breath of air. It feels like little feet walking over bridges, scaring birds away and smiling back at me. I've got images of love and potential growing in front of me; let them stay happy, let them stay.
I'm holding life in my lungs, and it reminds me of childhood happiness and childhood destruction. I see myself replicated in every state, parallel persons without a chance. Pain begins earlier these days; there are only so many trees you can climb before you're covered in splinters and regret. I just hope there's a home for healing. I just hope there's a home.
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