My Hammer

The puddle of breath accumulates in my muscles
affording the cough that might clear the room to build a life.
My cough is my hammer.
My cough is my hammer.
Hammer. Gasp. Hammer, Hammer.
The question is how best to spend your time with bankrupt lungs? The struggle is for efficiency and to slow down your favorite parts of the cycles you find yourself in. How can I stretch time? My body is damned to the speed of trot but my mind fires hot, hotter than trot, faster than death. This lump of fat in my head is responsible for my momentum. It is as important to my progress as the finest medicine. The cure is in me. My mind doesn’t know its limited until my body convinces it otherwise. The sting of “can’t” is swallowed to a bitter stomach. The rage is digested and beaten while hot into a tool i’ll gouge my way out of this hell. If I go it won’t be quiet, it will not be dignified.
Perhaps the biggest contradiction about me is the illusion of freedom. I cannot go one day without meds to help me breathe or enzymes to help break down and absorb the food I eat. For years I try to explain to people what is different about my body. I learned to speak of my lungs as rebellious children who argue and need poisoning from time to time. In a world of pill prophets and sooth-huffers I’m chained to the tools of medicine. Blessed with a compass that always points to life I weigh my stubbornness against the spirit that inspires.
Tomorrow I go into the den of disease to look for life. I hate hospitals- you have to convince a drowning man who wants to live to stop swimming. I’m no good at sitting still and waiting to be saved.

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