I don't breathe.
The oxygen might
rust my iron lungs;
try to migrate to my blood,
looking for a feast of red cells.
I'm already anemic.
I take the pills that make me choke.
Like anyone else,
I would die to get well.
My bones rattle and hum,
symphonic, symptomatic,
screaming with the joy of pain.

12/14/2005

Author's Note: I'm sick a lot.

Posted on 12/29/2005
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