Get Over It

Just breathe.

How can I? My own oxygen
is grated shrapnel over
temples amassed
across my veins

like someone who never says
when for the parmesan cheese
except your lungs are minced spaghetti –

I can make this funny
while simultaneously
wishing I could yank open
every door to the legion of
deaths discovered on WebMD.
They harden inside my belly
like a kingdom built to house
only doomsdays –
the priests in those
tiny temples say their pity
prayers and wait to be
set on fire.

You’re ok. 

Did you know that’s
slang for ‘orl correct’?
Everything about this city
was made to crumble.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

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