There's popcorn on the ceiling,
a million bajillion clusters that I've spent days trying to count.
In the 1950's these ceilings exploded into popularity.
And until 1977, homeowners blasted asbestos covered popcorn toward the sky, letting mesothelioma fibers fall back to their floor like it was harmless dust.
I take a deep breath, letting the air settle deep in my chest before letting it back out.
My ceiling is probably not made of asbestos.
It's probably styrofoam or some other cheap, paper-based product.
I take another deep breath.
The EPA banned the use of asbestos in these ceilings.
Apparently, inhaled in large quantities, asbestos causes lung disease, lung scarring, and lung cancer.
Another deep, deep breath.
I continue counting the probably not cancer causing popcorn.
I wonder if I would be able to feel the particles swimming in my lungs like fiber glass–thin, delicate, sharp.
I wonder if it would **** me.
I wonder if my family would file a claim like you see on those old commercials screaming,
"If you or a loved one developed mesothelioma you, yes you, could be entitled to compensation."
Or, something like that.
Breathe.
The air tastes funny.
My ceiling is most likely not made of asbestos.
But, I probably wouldn't care if it was.

it's one in the morning
and i have so many emotions
swelling in the space between
my lungs

the space where
i imagine my soul
resides

i don't know
why, but i feel
i know
that my soul is a tangible
expanding, moving
thing
trapped in my ribcage
my fragile bones are
a birdcage for
the paper bird that is my soul

it really does feel
like it can fly
sometimes,
like now
the darkest hour of the night
or when
i let certain songs
permeate my skin
and sink into my bones

my soul is an *****
visceral, necessary
for my very survival.
a comforting weight
in the space between my lungs
when i lose my grip
or my breath
i can feel it, always there
it grounds me.

I know you've already heard this.
I know that you already have.
This is a simply a PSA when I say that smoking is bad.
Maybe it's stress
Maybe it's a dare.
It was a stupid decision to even light the cigarette
But one day you'll realize that because of your decision,
you will stop your air
They'll **** your lungs
The lungs will rot away.
Your lungs will have to undergo surgery if you're lucky I say
I'm not making this up
I've experienced it first hand
I almost lost someone close to me because of smoking and their still slight of a hand
You think that's a metaphor that they are still recovering
But no,
it's not
It's a literal
They actually can't use their left hand.
It's been almost paralyzed because of smoking.
You may not know this about cigarette companies
They target the lower class citizens and genetically modify the nicotine to make it more addicting.
No matter what the labels say
No matter what the companies promise to do
They honestly don't care about your health and if there one thing they want.
It's your money.
So if you decide to even try smoking
you automatically lose with a small chance of hope.

The edges of my heart
Cut my soft fingertips every time I try to put the shards back together
Shattered, it struggles to not beat itself into pieces once again
Sometimes,
It feels as if my heart isn't the only point of origin for the blood Pumping through my veins
My lungs
Have become nothing but collateral damage from the
Razor sharp "I love you's,"
Their causalness
Serrating my gentle, slowing breaths
Stopping my heart's beating
Every word holding a little less meaning
"I love you?" I say back, confusèdly
Wondering
Exactly what percentage of your heart you think you poured into your words
Because I
Didn't hear any of it.
Cold, Callous
sandpaper tongue
Licking at the firey feelings of Doubt in my mind
Maybe
My quieted voice can quench my questions
Smother the slivers of vowels lodged in my lungs
Trust me when I say you cannot hold in the blood flowing from my wounds
By holding My hand.
Shorter than I yet
Somehow your lies stand taller than my inner knowing truth.
Your heart is flawless and filled with youth
So you
Cannot see the end as being anything other than mutual
Like my heart fingers and lungs
Are mutually bleeding
Sometimes, it is hard to tell which is bleeding more
Sometimes,
It is hard to tell if I am holding myself together or continuously falling further apart
Not like you would know the difference
You only ever held me when I didn't need it
When I smiled
Your mouth was filled with i love yous
But when I cried
It was never filled with questions
Why
Did you never try to see through me
Or even simply into my eyes
I thought you knew I wouldn't let you drown in my tears
But
Your reluctance to talk about my fears
Only shoved my own head under the steadily rising waters of sadness
And despair
My dear, how did you get so distant?
Moons, planets, light years away
Your heart
May as well have been located in the andromeda galaxy
Because i
Could never truly reach it
Did you really want to become so distant?
When I just wanted to reside by your side
I guess I'll dont really want to know the reason why
Or if it would have even been worth it to try
To fix us.

I wish it were for attention
or an accident
or a phase.
It would be easier that way.
Maybe then
I wouldn't be scared
to love what I love
Who I love.
Her.

You are reading this
as I am navigating
my life and
my newly discovered
what has always been.

Trust me.
I'd much rather hide
behind her hair
and in my room
tucked away
alone, together.

But my heart yearns
to scream at the top of
my lungs
that I love her.
And to say,
**** the World
and whoever is not ready
for Us.

That
would be attention.
And I don't mind.