Not slowly, like sand washing up on shore, but rather all at once.


Like a bubble blown up too big,
Like a shaken bottle of soda with a loose cap,
Like a needle on a freshly blown balloon,
Like a KNIFE on a BREATHING RIB CAGE.


A second before disaster.

But the question is,

Who




Will




Push




The




                   NEEDLE?


No one does.

I return home deflated. A needle cannot end me now.
I wish someone would open the cap, pop the bubble,


But there is no knife on my breathing rib cage.