it’s a hell of a lot to take in and with one big breath you inhale for what seems like

four years

one century

an eight count

and then your lungs are sparkling but also sparking and there’s the taste of chalk in the back of your throat 

you spit on to the ground.

blood.

iron.

the disappointment in your mother’s face when you come home a little bit too late and there’s bruises on your legs that you can’t remember getting but it was better than being at home anyway. 

anyway 

you exhale and with it goes a sound that sends the crows flying from the trees, like a meteor shower in reverse (black against a cloud-white bright sky, so gray you can’t remember what color even means) or maybe an omen of something to come 

and we don’t know if it’s good or bad (it just is)

and sometimes things just have to be

there is a gray space I swear it I know

you can’t remember when things weren’t all or nothing so I need you to

breathe 

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545; min-height: 14.0px}
li.li1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545}
ul.ul1 {list-style-type: hyphen}