Things I think while waiting for my bronchodilator to work.

Coughing, with a chest infection: the stinging rip of the gluey mess inside my chest being suction-stripped away from the lung walls, like stubborn blu-tac or chewing gum coming reluctantly unstuck from a bedroom wall. That picked-scab-fresh kind of pain in pieces of myself that see air but not light. Lifting my chin right up, like the cat Paulie does when you rub his throat, but I’m doing it not to luxuriate in the worship of my guardian biped, but to stretch out the airway and get to the air.  It feels like underwater, but under air. Thick, heavy air. Pulling my shoulders back, pushing my sternum up and out, straining my muscles to arrange my breathing apparatus for a little bit more oxygen.  Straining. Sucking. Trying.
In three weeks, when I no longer have to try, I will forget how much I like breathing.

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About alexandraengland


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