Bigger Than Bronchitis

There is a full-fledged war going on inside my upper respiratory tract. A microscopic battle between good and evil that I'm trying to mediate but I can't figure out which side I belong on. Battle lines were crossed somewhere inside my trachea. Airflow into and out of my lungs is partially blocked and only getting worse because of the swelling virus infecting me but I really know it's mainly due to the pile of dead white blood cells that the chemical solvents and smoke killed off. The shallow grave of cells is only growing, the man power is too low to rid of the deceased, and the allies are running late as usual. I cannot stop a war that I cannot see. From the outside all is quiet on the western front, but on the inside bloodshed wages on. A man in white listens carefully with a cold, artificial ear that he presses against my chest. He can only do so much though. He assembled a rescue team made up of three distinctively different components that were doing all they could but just couldn't work together so when the man in white wasn't listening I ordered two of the three to retreat and forget what they saw. I blame it on their differing war techniques and tactics. Reinforcements of my own are on their way though, an ambush of tetrahydrocannabinol is next, closely followed by an air strike of norepinephrine and dopamine. Chemical warfare is the only way. Miniature sized bombs filled to capacity with metabolized salts and clarithromycin are being dropped strategically throughout the day. An attempt to clear out any survivors left inside comes as dual flushes of smoke every couple seconds as the aerial attacks make their way around the sife. I cannot remember when this became a kamikaze mission and I will not be held responsible for any collateral damage. I can feel my respiratory system rebuilding itself but it will take time. There is a full-fledged war going on inside and I cannot assume it will disappear for good. There is a new-fledged war building up larger than ever stuck inside caused by a mixture of past habitual mistakes we had no idea about and present day patterns we cannot change, only this time I just can't quite pinpoint where or when the outbreak will begin again.

The Scavenger's Reflection

Around 12:30 pm or so I woke up and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. Usually I would do it in the kitchen sink where it's sanitary but I had slacked off the night before and forgot about the pile of dishes pouring out. The mirror was disgusting considering it wasn’t my bathroom. It was covered in fingerprints and debris from the last few people that brushed their teeth. There was soap still dripping down the reflecting glass but that wasn’t what I was looking at. Instead, staring back at me was squinty-eyed raccoon; unhappy about the situation we had seemed to get ourselves into.

“Was I on acid again,” I thought to myself.

He shook his head slightly back and forth while he scratched at the fur coating his chin, as if to say no.
We just stood there, looking into each others eyes, matching each other move for move, and then counteracting every step the other would take by moving in the opposite direction but still in an identical behavior.

“You know man, you’re really starting to fuck us. What about hierarchy needs? Didn’t think to include me in these times of change, did ya? It’s not even like we have our priorities mixed up, they are completely missing all together. You completely threw Maslow’s theory out of the window and I’m really beginning to think that your right mind should start consulting with me.”

It wasn’t strange that he was talking to me; it was more that I didn’t give my imagination that much credit, nor did I think my personification skills were that advanced.

Before I looked down to splash my face with water I turned off the light.

“Since when do raccoons talk intelligently?”

Weight Gain

I don't know how much of me I am losing to them.
So the knots in my stomach tangle up with the knots in my head,
and the knots in my shoulders begin to feel more like blocks of lead.
The stockpile of weight just collects as I rest,
as I lay up for hours at night in a bed,
so I do all I can and I hope for the best.
Now the weight on my shoulders weighs down on my breast.
It pushes my organs aside as it sinks into my chest
and even after all the abuse my lungs still try their best.
I work each day to lose the weight I collect
and I make sure that I work every chance that I get
just on the off chance I have only a little time left.
So I try to untie knots before I am forgotten or dead.
Every pound I've collected I will strip off and shed,
Every moment now on I will live to attest.
The knots are just knots, and the lead is not lead.
The tangles inside will soon leave your head.
But the more you feel stress the bigger the mess.

Going Away Party

Hopefully the mixture of weed, cigarettes, and beer helped shorten the length of my cold. I'm not too worried about it either way though, that wasn't what got me sick and it wasn't gonna make a difference one way or another. My immune system was slowly broken down by various things; lack of sleep, terrible eating habits, stress. But, I'm pretty sure the thing that got me was the cold car I shared for a few hours and the 10 minute conversation we had standing on her porch. With the wind chill it was probably about 12 degrees. We stood huddled together under the awning of her house wishing we were inside but knew that it wasn't an option. Neither of us moved except to either get closer to each other or to whisper something in the others ear. We would've stood there all night like a statue, a stone cut replica of what was once two living, breathing lovers. Ice would've began to freeze our faces from the beads rolling down from her eyes. Cheek to cheek, our skin would be stuck together. You could hear the wind blowing, barreling over our bodies and whistling through the gaps between our torsos, you could hear our teeth chattering and sharing a conversation of their own, but you wouldn't hear any complaints from either of us. It was out of fear, fear that as soon as one of us move, it may be the last time we would see each other for yet another year or so. So we just stood, like a monument getting worn and withered away by the elements, like a bookmark holding the page of story that was never finished. It felt like an eternity that went by in a little over 10 minutes, the longest and shortest 10 minutes of our lives. I held her hand and felt sorry for those who owned the fingerprints on her body that weren't mine, a years worth of necessary foolishness that mapped out exactly where she had been. I was just as guilty too. I didn't exactly stay put for that year either. I had my own map spread out across my body, down to my hips where most of the prints seemed to gather. However, we both knew that the atlases on our bodies would eventually fade away leaving only one set of prints remaining on us both. They would cover every inch from scalp to toe that only we would see. So we just continued our stand in the snow. I remembered a time when we did something like this once before, a moment when we stood in this same spot but under far happier circumstances, and it made me smile. I wondered if she could remember the moment that brought the smile on. Either way she knows I would remind her if it may have slipped her mind. She began to smile too. For the next few seconds we were almost back to that moment, resting on each other safely in the arms of her home. The wind whistled loud bringing us back to what was actually happening, but we continued to stand there with it all weighing against us. Words were unnecessary and even if we tried to force something out it was masked by vibrating teeth and quivering lips. Just before she went inside the icy weather found it's way deep into our bones but the fire we felt inside was still just enough for only the two of us to know we would never freeze alone.

Fetor Ex Ore

I can feel my heart beat
Pounding through my stomach
As it, as it's been eating me alive
And it always tends to remind
Of the times you took your bites
Out of the my flesh
Oh my god I needed it
Now I hope...you can't get me off your breath
I never told you but I poisoned every piece
Now I hope...you can't get me off your breath

Section B10 on 202

I litter the same winding, rubber abused road almost every day with two cigarettes, one while going and one while returning. As my lungs fill with the last bit of chemical soaked smoke, my fingers thrust the recessed filter out of the window. It gets swept up by the slip stream that's created by the other cars driving both north and south. I try to follow it's path through my rear view mirror but it's path is too erratic and I'm too worried about causing an accident. It tumbles for a few terrifying seconds and it's gone and I will never see it again. The remainder of the drive consists of me wishing I would've sprung for the 100s and the fear that the last bit of cigarette I just tossed is still lit and is now in the beginning stages of a forest fire. I'll worry about it on the way back. The road curves, bends, and barrels through two rival sides of a once harmonic forest. The pavement separates them like a mother would do to her two bickering sons. A few hours will go by until I'm back in my car, smoking a cigarette and traveling in the opposite direction. But, I can't help finding myself excited about being back on the road solely due to that minuscule chance of a massive fire awaiting my return.