for the alive

True story. The other morning as I washed the sleep off of my face, I noticed my neck in the mirror. The delicate flesh just above my collar bone was bruised with grip marks like I'd been strangled in the night. Hard. My flesh had bruised like fallen rose petals and I had no idea why.

I pictured the walls of my bedroom closing down and growing hands in the night, pressing into my body and daring me to scream or sigh out into the velvet night. I've never been afraid of a little choking, a little extra pressure so I can really feel my carotid artery beating in my neck. Make life feel more vital and impending.

I have yet to solve the mystery of my grips along my neck. Maybe it was my own hand resting gently on my chest and then suddenly pushing on my vocal chords with all of their strength. Playing with the control of breath. Making sure I don't get complacent. Teasing me so I remember to stay alive.

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all we can do is keep breathing

There are some words that just sound exactly like what they are. They taste like how they feel when they play across your teeth. Bite. Love. Choke. Breathe.

Breathe.

I'm the world record champion for holding my breath. I held my breath once for twenty minutes. Then I held it for five months. Then I held it for one year.

The ghosts stole my breath and replaced it with shattered glass that got caught in my lungs until I was exhaling blood where the carbon dioxide should be. Then I coughed out all the glass and picked up a pocket of air that was hiding at the back of my closet. I swaddled it like a baby and kissed its forehead. As I did, the breath found its way back in.

My eyeliner wings were blacker and longer and the breath had a faint air of raspberries and happiness as it caressed the world around it.

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