This body. This is—what's the word?
Heavy.
Control, finally, of what I've always wanted, and all I can think is how much I feel like the metal I was trapped inside. Freedom is anything but.
(Creeeeak and snap. My bones pop into place.)
Labored breath in and out and in and out and when does this ever stop, I want to ask but this weight in my mouth won't let me.
But you read my mind (as usual, like clockwork and you didn't even need an eye made out of gold to do it). "Keep breathing," you say. "It doesn't stop until you die."
In the long instant that my eyelids close, I see
Lips pressed close, and the bomb in my chest detonates: tick-tick-
Tock.
Discordant, irregular. Unpredictable, even, or perhaps especially.
Inhale, exhale. This is different to me than to you, so I'm informed. To you, this means survival. To me, well, to me, it's only a favor. I can stop anytime I want, but—
You, and the way you smell. It fills me up and burns my lungs and throat. Like alcohol, and your father's amber bourbon rage. I can't stand this, but it's strange and fascinating and new. I want thisneedthishavetohave.
This.
That.
Lilac eyelids like lead (Do they droop to the floor?) and I'm tired. Light a cigarette, fire within its head, inhaaaaale.
Cough. Whensincehow why? A constant hackhackhacking to rid me of the smoke. My body tries to kill the addiction before it kills me first.
So easily, the cancer used to hang from between my knuckles and I would swallow it whole and it would paint my lungs a pretty shade of black.
If I were desperate enough, I would have tried again. But I'm not. Simply living is difficult enough as it is.
Start from the beginning. Breathe—in and out. Blink once, twice, again, again. You don't need to worry about your heart, it does that for you without asking. Swallow carefully, because if I don't pay attention, if I'm not cautious, I just might
Choke.