What I mean is, no panic attack can last longer than twenty minutes. And no matter how much it feels like your entire body is shutting down, you are not going to die.
What I mean is, no matter how absurd or prolonged your pain is, trust that your body is in the process of building a womb around itself and that you are not going to die.
See, I've turned my body into a temple. Divine, sacred, wholesome. I have grown familiar with every inch of my skin. Bone by bone, and breath by breath, I built my own womb from scratch. Crafted my name upon the walls and screamed my poetry into being.
My body took root in this womb. And no matter how many times I woke up with this agonizing pain in my chest, I knew I was not going to die.
Murphy's law states that whatever can go wrong will go wrong.
And over time, my temple is filled with cracks. But I see the streaks of light coming through and I am reassured. And so I consider it a testimony for how impossible it is for the cracks to kill me.
Now picture this: that temple of utter divinity, that is all I have, can no longer endure any more cracks. I mean, even though I know the light is everywhere, it does not pass through my cracks. Heck, I can't even see the light.
What I mean is, my body is not in the process of building a womb around itself. It is not adapting, it is not surviving, for the love of God, it is in ruins.
Perhaps the problem is not that. Perhaps the problem is that after all, I am not going to die.
And so as time went on, I took shelter in an empty prescription bottle and suffered the atrocity of sobriety.
Because in an infinite universe of infinite dimensions, in a galaxy that contains hundreds of billions of stars and enough gas and dust to make a billion more stars, I exist, but only briefly.
Forget the name that I have crafted and erase the poetry that you've heard. For I have been disowned, and I have nothing left to be taken away from me.
