3/31/12

When you can't breathe, it feels like you're dying. Your body thinks you're dying and sweat seeps from glands you didn't even know you had but you're quite cold. Asthma screams at your brain and cuts you off from your lungs until you're nothing more than a groaning mess. It's not elegant and it's not as serious as some diseases, but in those few minutes when you're sure your lungs escaped your chest cavity, it's the worst feeling in the world.

3/30/12

When you rub a finger over a spine, you can feel the ridges like stabbing mountains. I imagine those ridges pushing outwards, poking through the skin until there's a deadly, spiked spine like a porcupine mohawk down my back. What if I stab someone?

3/29/12

The hooks are rusting, curving like infections, beckoning fingers. They beg for lights or wind chimes or hanging baskets. I want to hang happiness.

3/28/12

Hidden behind wrought iron bars and a giant evergreen, it's a paradise jail. Criss cross applesauce next to a hand saw, half a pack of Diet Coke and plastic wrap. It's a trashy balcony, so no one else is drawn here. A hard toss up, either outside with the self righteous recycling fiends or inside with a whining child of a roommate. I escape to my scratchy tiled sanctuary, away from her and as far into Bellingham as I'm willing to venture. The branches open arms wide like the stereotypical pose of 'come at me bro' shielding me from the road. I am alone, staring through elegant swirling prison bars.