25 weeks into my existence, my lungs have been a part of me, a part of my life support. 25 weeks into my existence, I have been negligent to acknowledge what keeps my heart, my mind, my being cycling. Through my unconsciousness, through my dreams, through strains of my waking life you never stop swelling contracting, and swelling to sustain my human life. With meditation I bring life through awareness of you in silence and persistence. These are my stillest moments, and I finally know that you are there with all that is within me. I am conscious of your efforts, conscious of how you never sleep, like I do. My awareness of you keeps me awake, keeps centered, keeps me here. I can think of you pleasantly as pink and fleshy, round in some places, stronger than most muscles that I have. If I could touch you, how would you feel against my fingers? Slick and wet, intimate, always encaged by bones, by my skin, hovering around my solar plexus, gentle but profound, sleepless and determined to keep me, to support me, to make me. Would you tremble under the soft contact of another extension of me? Or simply grow ill because of all the dirt and ailments the skin on my hands solemnly promise you. Besides this state of consciousness of your presence, there are times, far too many that you are there without much acknowledgement at all. Without much acknowledgement that you are controlling, the very source of my state of mind.
Some of my fondest memories of you involve my smothering you in smoke, choking away my consciousness. I do this so that I may smile in a way that is effortless, so that the unbearable weight of Tuesdays and my makeup brush on a foreign face won’t kill my insides as much as they do on Mondays. So that it is easier to bat my eyes, and feel the light of the sun on my skin or the whisking breeze against the sounds of traffic hurdling through my window. So that it is easier to feel my favorite song when the sun is setting, or to feel a lover’s hands, to feel the acute temperature of his skin and its texture, the exact shape, width, and depth in me of a lover’s perfect indication of gender, to feel the silken pool of tresses against my thighs, accompanied by the sincerest of fingers and the flexing wetness of a tongue, a tiny feminine voice that speaks soft and breaths warmth from her lungs, quicken the fluctuating pulses of mine, of you.
When my heart was broken, I’m more than sure that you were the blackest you’d ever been. About a quarter-pack of cigarettes a day I’d smoke, to ease away the knots in my stomach, to make me feel less like I was dying, when in reality, there was only more death that I was bringing into me. From pure luck, my self-inflicted death obsession has faded, and I keep you as healthy as possible, returning the favor in the best ways I know.