Lines scribbled on the twentieth of two days later -
It’s only when things go wrong that you notice your body. The rest of the time you are unconscious of your component parts and how they work.
But now my ribcage feels like a cage. A rusty one. With bars that brown and flake and threaten to crack. That bend and bow and moan as I lean against them trying to escape my monster cellmate.
And my lungs feel like dry bellows. Riddled with holes and drying glue and useless. A collapsed accordion in the hands of a tone deaf musician. I whistle the introduction and he wheezes his way through a lament to lost days.