in these ungodly hours,
between sneezing fits and coughing spells,
i am reminded yet again of my choices in life:
what i shouldn't have done
where i shouldn't have gone
who i shouldn't have loved
why i shouldn't have cared
when i should have stopped
trying
as i inhale yet suffocate on nothingness,
my breaths wheezing in and out of tight airways
squeezing through inflammed slime-padded walls;
if the air pressure drops, i know i need to get my oxygen first before
i focus on others, but every time i stumble with my own mask
to deal with a vessel that constantly breaks down
triggered by too many things that it thinks is a threat,
i realise that no one else around me has lungs that malfunction
like we have left our atmosphere despite still being on land.
as an alien living in constant fear of unidentified flying objects,
my eyes are as cloudy as my thoughts, but i am not high.
i'm too acrophobic to be in heavenly spaces
so i stay displaced and disgraced, grounded
feet firmly planted in a foreign home
that regularly chokes me.
tell me, when should i stop trying?
- (re)vertigo, 20191118 0745