I can’t breathe.

***

Not anymore.

________________

I’m suffocated

by the

darkness.

It closes in all around me,

with no escape.

***

________________

I’m drowning,

grasping for air

in the lies and falsifications.

They crush the air out of my lungs.

***

________________

I’m choked

by hate and malice.

The hate you gave so lovingly,

wraps its bony fingers around my neck

in a cold embrace

and squeezes.

again.

again.

***

________________

It was supposed to be my Cinderella moment (listen, guys don't get fairytale princesses so we have to make do). My mom had helped me dress in my bext tuxedo, and my dad had given me a haircut that didn't come out of one of Nana's pressed Vogue magazines from the early 1900s. The corsage that I had for Emily was tightly on my wrist, and it matched my tie. I just knew it would match her eyes since I spent more time staring at them than paying attention to Mr. McCullough. My dad had dropped me off in their station wagon, rather than just using the taxi he drove. He wished me good luck and I stepped out into the sea of other kids trying to get into prom.

The theme was Night Under the Sea, despite Maya and Henry's pleas to have something that the school hasn't been doing since the 1980s. I found them quickly, kissing under the bleachers. Henry saw me and gave me a thumbs-up as he quickly rounded first base and headed to second. I walked past the bleachers to see the whole senior class mingling. For once, they actually enforced the "upperclassmen only" rule (though it was spurred by some asshole basketball player preying on the underclassmen), so I at least knew everyone there. I set my jacket down and circled the room.

Rhiannon saw me first before I had seen her. I was looking for Emily when she came over and tapped me, effectively scaring the shit out of me.

"Hey, you came!" she said, making my soul leave my body. "Jesus, don't have a cow, man."

"Sorry, you look... the same as always?"

"Yeah, why get dressed up when I could be comfortable. But hey, have a good night. I think I saw Em over there with her friends."

Rhiannon joined some of her friends and walked away. Though I normally dreaded when chemistry class was over since she was one of my only friends at school, I was happy she left so I could regain my color and catch my breath before finding Emily. The DJ was playing something fun now, so I still had time before the slow songs came on everyone went from relaxing to playing Musical Chairs with the people around them. I wandered towards the south basketball hoop where a bunch of colorful prom dresses were huddled. I could see her blonde curly hair and soft hazel eyes from the sideline, though she was standing right underneath the retracted hoop.

I walked towards them when I smelled it. It smelled like rotten eggs and a migraine. I stopped around the three-point line and looked around. Everyone in the room was swaying lethargically despite Janet Jackson playing. People's grips on each other were slipping, and a few people closest to the door of the north wing were laughing maniacally. I noticed that I was breathing less and less and looked around for a solution. The windows were closed despite the April heat and only one door was open, making the gym a sweltering, ventless hotbox. But something was in the air and it was bad. I looked around frantically, saw the fire alarm, and pulled it. Ink spouted on me and the sprinklers and alarms went off simultaneously.

The dance stopped though the music was still playing, and everyone made beelines for the exits. I kicked open the south door and people followed me down the hall and out of the building. A million soaked teenagers flooded outside. I was the first though, though I saw Rhiannon staring at the school. She must've left before I did, though I could tell something was wrong with her. I pulled her aside as people came barreling out of the building, screaming at the unknown.

"Are you okay, Rhi?" I asked her.

"I hate them," she said softly. Her hands were shaking.

"What do you mean? What's wrong?"

"They were going to Carrie me," she said, looking down. "They said we were king and queen. It's bullshit."

"What are you talking about?"

Rhiannon didn't speak, just pulled away from me, and walked towards her car, crying. I started after her, but the principal had grabbed me since I was the only kid covered in stupid blue dye. For once, I was not going to be expelled. There was methane in the gym, and a few more minutes and everyone would have been dead. They found tubes from the science room leading into the gym. All the gas was turned on. Had this been the sixties, some jackass would've lit a cigarette and the whole room would be a fireball. A few people were hurt, including Henry and Maya who were under the bleachers near the gas. They went to the hospital.

My dad came in the taxi, terrified that something had happened, and thankful that I was okay (though he was pissed about my stained clothes). As we drove away, I wondered what Rhiannon had meant and whether she had done this. It didn't seem like her, but when she didn't come to school that Monday, or the days that followed until graduation, I couldn't help but wonder if she did and why. I didn't realize it until my sister and her boyfriend invited me to watch a movie and we watched Carrie. As soon as the pail of blood fell on Carrie, my throat seized up and I began to sputter and gag. My sister's boyfriend called it a panic attack and they tried to calm me down but I just thought of Rhiannon and her shaking and began to cry, and shake, and hyperventilate.

There is no air in my lungs and I wonder how long they've been empty...

but I can't even remember what day it is.

When you're breathless around someone it's supposed to be a good thing, right?

So why are my fingernails are leaving bloody trails down my own arms, clenching and unclenching to a frantic rythm?

My heart feels as if it is a sledgehammer colliding with my ribcage, willing to grind my fragile bones to dust if only to escape these gentle hands as they curl around my waist.

I still love you, of course.

At least... that's what you tell me.

Because for you love was never a gift to be tucked within in gentle touches and shy smiles. It was the price tag on my broken body.

My love for your life.

...but this doesn't feel like living anymore and i'm so close to giving up that i wish you would just let me go, let me slip between your fingers like sand returning to the beach as my life ebbs into the ocean. you hold on, though, and your hands are leaving bruises now but i hardly notice because my mind is desperately clawing towards places where you cannot follow and as everything fades to the periphery all I can feel is my lungs screaming for air so I go through the motions of taking a breath but your hand is over my mouth and all I can taste is the sickening sweetness of summer strawberries as you cram them down my throat

because that's what lovers do, isn't it?

“I am an American”—cut that into my shoulder blades with razors if you must—or shout it from the sidelines as you wave a flag made from blue eyes, rust red blood, and the stars our ancestors made wishes on—I am an American and I can’t change that so much as I can change the color of my skin—but if I try till my blood runs dry and my bones cry I can change what the words “I am an American” means—our redemption will be more than false free stars and lines of red and white toy soldiers marching across my throat—with my last words ringing true across the land of the free “I am an American” and perhaps for once I will be proud

Haymarket Cafe recently opened its doors for take out and curb-side pickup. We’re talking downtown Northampton, Massachusetts. And we’re talking big - their pink lemonade.

Chelsea drives up to the curb, a smooth parallel-park.

“Oh my god.”

There’s one left.

She grabs it and pays. One sip and - oh my god. The one-two punch of sickly sweet and tart to make your mouth pop.

“How does it taste?” asks the barista, flirty with their newfound freedom of human contact.

“It’s... oh my god. It’s so good that I can’t breathe.”

You once held me close

but not in a loving sort

of way like I did

I think it's different

if your hands are on my throat

my face turning blue

I barely survived

gasping for air as you

left me so I'd die

well joke's on you kid

i'm a survivor unlike you

in a few minutes

I relish the way

you say " I can't breathe" like I

did before all this

but I guess you

can live for the time being

until you get it

I can leave you to

rot and wait for someone to

find you in this place

but we know better

you were always wanting to

be the center of

this cruel and sick world

you claimed as your own even

thought no one loved you

so for now i'll just

leave you and hope for the best

but not for you, though

If you somehow live

don't try to escape from me

I will just find you

My name is Karma

I will hunt down and kill you

to get what is mine

i told myself i wasnt good enough nor will ever be. that i could never achieve my dreams.

and when i said out loud that i hated my life, everything stood still. i watched the dust freeze in the air. and i saw my reflection in the black screen of the tv. how a hollow feeling felt in my stomach and rummaged up through my chest. how i felt my throat tighten. how empty i felt. how hurt i felt when i realized that my friends werent actually my friends anymore. how detached i was from them but how much i clung on. how embarrased i felt. how lonely and hopeless i felt. my friend had gotten a boyfriend and didnt tell me, thats when i knew we werent close anymore. neither did she answer my texts. but how narrow and reality-distant my definition or idea of a friend was. i was lost. lonely. hopeless for the future. i began analyzing every aspect of my life and especially how i couldnt engage in romantic settings with a guy and how uncomfortable i felt when it occured. especially with strangers. how scared i was of men. how i couldnt picture myself being intimate with someone but wanting it so bad at the same time. nothing made sense.

five minutes later and im sitting at the dinner table with my family and pretending i didnt just fall into a deep, dark hole. going on as if i didnt just tell myself that i hate my life and how much i thought about how bad i have it. forcing the negativity to the back of my head, plastering on a happy smile. continuing the evening and cozying up later by myself, forgetting what happened earlier, but knowing they’ll return another day if not tomorrow. fake happiness. but truth is i cant remember a time where i didnt struggle. is happiness even fucking real? because it sure seems like i fucking cant have it! not truly. not purely. not lasting. so fuck this! i’ll force myself having cozy, happy moments by myself because i cant ever fucking be in a permant state of happiness.

my jaw was rock-hard, sore and hurt. but it couldnt beat the feeling of being wrong, lonely, not good enough, abandoned, left out, hopeless, genuinely unhappy through and through. it makes it hard to breathe sometimes.

(this is purely fictional, btw. just glad my life cant sue for plagiarism... jk jk. but on a serious note, most people, including me, experience some, if not all of these thoughts and i just like to put them down on paper because it helps me. thanks for reading)

Do not go unswollen into that good night.

With your Epi pens at the ready,

Take your first bite.

When your mouth begins to swell,

And tis’ hard to speak through lips so tight.

Do not go gently into that subway night.