Part IV · Fallout
Inhale
In—
One—
Two—
Three—
Out…
The mantra I whisper
as my lonely breath releases its grip
on what little oxygen remains.
With each inhale,
my lungs inflate—
and I wish for peace.
Even if peace feels foreign,
it should be instinct.
That warm, quiet comfort
we’re all meant to know.
But the cuts,
the bruises,
the scrapes—
they’ve left mine
incomplete.
And I keep wondering
when my brain will remember
its natural rhythm—
when the breath won’t hitch,
when the air won’t ache,
when the heart won’t feel like winter.
I’m just trying
to find the shape
of something like
a happy home.