Breathing

Breathing

Living with an incurable illness is like breathing with a wire in your throat.
What should come easily must instead be pushed,
But push too hard and risk hearing that tearing of flesh,
The warm metallic blood rising to your mouth,
Sticky on your tongue, dribbling venom down your chin
Like the vampire that sucked away your life and left you with this
Nonentity.

There is no coffin that seals this illness shut,
Or shovel that pats it on the top of its head
And renders it tragic.
They don’t talk about how young you were or
The life stolen by waste.
You persist in the world, wasting away an existence you feel you stole,
Constantly waiting for the heavy hand on your shoulder
To come and take you away,
To make you stand trial for your sufferance.
Explain why.
Why?
Stand before judgement in the box they have classed as ‘wrong’
And tell them you don’t know why,
Or how,
Or how to stop.
You are a menace to yourself and to those who have no say in whether to love you,
Who somehow hear a heart beating in that hollow chest,
Who look into your eyes each day and see the child who promised
They would grow up to be happy.

I have stared through the cracked skin and weary eyes
And found a spirit buried so deep in sadness that it no longer knows
It is there.
I have touched it, felt the shock of it at my fingertips and
Snatched my hand away fiercely,
Shamefully offended by its presence.
I have known him,
Comforted her,
Clamped my arms around them and
Hoped to suffocate their suffering.
I have loosened my hold on their pain
(as they do from time-to-time)
But forever remain hanging by a thread of barbed wire
Tearing at our throats,
Blood bubbling to the surface,
Making it harder to breathe.