What?

Boiling,
rising,
I feel it - here it comes, that
rush, that
not-enough;
I'm standing at the window because
I love air,
I love the way it loves me
unconditionally,
lets me breathe it in and
swallow doubts stuck to the
roof of my taped mouth.
I love the way
I hate my lungs as they fill,
spill to the top of the clouds,
vaporized to nothing,
choking on tuffs of smoke.
This is all an insane ****ing joke
and my lids are closing,
treetops dozing,
third-degree burns of the heart.





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