My ribs are straining under the weight of breath.
For a full inhale draws awareness to the storm in my belly.
Spouting funnels of agony to the crown of my head.
I am alive.
No, no, no mustn’t be still.
To be still is to acknowledge. To permit. To accept.
Ribs straining.
Awareness of the storm
is agony.
I am alive.
They are dead.
