insufferable

making art out of this space; thin, gaping air,

struck, quite like mucous, 

between and right in front of the face of my tongue and my esophagus runs a straw that i owe my life to, only to suffocate on it;

like rivets, on my blue, boyfriend jeans, punctured;

it has been difficult. i don't know the last syllable of my word,

and that consonant,

it feels quite much as if own my reality has been cut short; cast flat, 

stale, 

and as if i take it on the palette of my tongue and i feel every breath,

and every brush of texture, 

and motif; 

and people, 

and as much of the colour i witness, 

i remain stood still in an awful dismay, holding this vase of grief that has been but both my spurt of growth and what i've raised myself on also.

to my intimate disability, my condition - i'm maddeningly in love with you as much as i cannot divorce you, and as much as you abuse me,

and all that i know of it and myself,

i've moaned about it louder than her,

and even now i cannot breathe but yet i have to write to grasp another moment of breath.

*

it left nothing of me, 

nothing of me, really.