Inhale.

The smoke caresses the contours of my lungs. I feel it coil around and swirl inside, intricate spirals taunting me; the fact that I can feel means I’m still alive, means you’re still in there.

Exhale.

Every breath brings me closer to ridding myself of you; you live in my heart, in my lungs. This could be the drag that finally frees me of your relentless torture – the silence; you quietly pull the blood through my veins.

Inhale.

It wasn’t. Why have I allowed this? You came knocking and I readily accepted you in. But then you started to examine me; you analyzed me until I was merely a bag of bones, blood, and futile memories for you to feed from. Soon, it wasn’t enough – my flesh became your nourishment. You continued to evaluate me, though, no – you would never stop. You climbed through my ears to my head and scoped out every inch of the landscape.

Exhale.

The thing is, you tired of my head easily, suddenly hungry for more. You inched your way down my throat, taking in the scenery, the lush fields of vitality pulsing crimson. Eventually you found my lungs and cut your way through; I felt every second. You asphyxiated me just to see how far I could bend until I broke. My lungs constricted around your form and I tried to cough you out, but it was a feeble attempt. I thought I kind of liked it. Next on your endeavor to completely destroy me, you uprooted and traveled through a nearby vein.

Inhale.

You flowed right into my heart. You made yourself at home, fancying yourself an alchemist. You tried so hard to turn my blood to gold but it was all in vain.

Exhale.

Guilt is a funny little creature, isn’t it? You felt it deep in your bones when you were near mine; I like to think that I made you feel it nipping at your insides. You patched up all the fissures and lacerations you had created and repaired me until I was not quite new. You took care of my heart, reassured me that being near the constant rhythm made you feel alive.

Inhale.

I believed every late night whisper, every dreary dawn confession.

Exhale.

What happened to you?

Inhale.

You stopped talking to me. Sometimes I think you died inside me. Perhaps my insides were so rotten they killed you.

Exhale.

These days I figure you’re ignoring me. Maybe you thrive off of my unvarying curiosity. You probably know what your ongoing silence is doing to me.

Inhale.

So I smoke. Day and night, cancer stick after cancer stick, I smoke to kill you. I want my air bags to blacken; you won’t have anything to soften the blow when we finally crash. I smoke to become a living Cancer Land, to turn my insides into an organ necropolis.

Exhale.

You can stay wherever you are until the end of time, but as soon as my blood drains and this body decays, you won’t have anything to feed your hunger. Your elixir of life will expire. Your playhouse of bones will resemble a cemetery and the cushion of my flesh and organs will cease to console you. You’ll wither away alongside me.

Inhale.

Until then, I’ll try to live.

Exhale.