There are lights, out in the distance, shining so bright

(stars have been left to the dull rot of pollution)

There is rain, its reflection sparkling upon flat, city pavement

(the same pavement that covers cicadas' dying voices,
leaves voids through trees)

There is my heart, weight resting heavy against my chest

(the smile on my face made of plaster and wood,
failing more quickly by the second)

There is beauty, still

(just most of it artificial)


Amidst that,

breathe ability is courage
when there are no longer any good choices to make.

breathe-ability is the nails biting into your skin
the hair yanked out from scalp
the bruises and scrapes itched raw
because you can't let yourself feel in any other way.

breatheability is the small amount of comfort that still exists
as you continue to agree to force air through your lungs.

and breatheability is living.

(because if you stop, you die.
no second chances.)