I build the walls of my lungs up
With 'no' and 'impossible',
And stick them together with
Glue and plasters and duct tape.
Workers hired long ago
Maintain the foundations of
My lungs with ill-concealed, spiteful
Laughter and clumsy hands.
I pay them as much as I can,
But sometimes joy is hard to come by,
And they abandon my lungs:
That's when things get out of hand.
It usually starts when I'm alone:
The weak sides of my lungs begin
To crumble, and the oxygen that
Lives there starts to shiver in worry.
Chunks of 'no' fall off the sides,
And land with crashes and bangs
On the floors of my diaphragm.
'Impossible' follows soon after.
The walls collapse suddenly,
Air evicted (since it cannot stay
Any longer). They cry, since they
Are now homeless and afraid.
Ribs shaking, shoving against my
Skin in sharp, sudden bursts;
I need to find someone to come
And live in my lungs again,
Or else I will be finished, over.
Deep breaths, shallow breaths,
But I can't find anyone to fill
The void of my chest cavity.
I lie their, clutching the walls
Tightly in a futile attempt to keep
Them together: but it never works,
And I can only wait for air to come.
Eventually, I will find something that
Can make the builders return again,
And continue their half-hearted work
To make my lungs strong enough.
For now, though, I shall have to sit
Here, on the floor of the bathroom,
Gasping and crying, and feel the walls
Of my lungs fall in on each other.
YOU ARE READING
the mind's recesses
Poetrywords that fell out of inky fingers, and stained the paper that lay on wooden tables.
