Carried Away

Sometimes I forget that there's this small machine in my chest that keeps my breath going. Waking up after the sun is directly above my eye lids, tripping over covers tucked too tight from the night before. I forget that theres this small machine inside of me while I'm brushing my teeth. And I start to feel this immense sadness when I hear about her small town that was demolished in one pass. Her entire life swept away in the loudest noises to ever enter into her ears. Her family taken with the thunder of it all.

And all at once that machine in my chest stops moving. It starts to cry for her and everyone who suffers today, yesterday, and tomorrow. And the next day my eyes open before the sun reaches the horizon and I sit for a while, until my feet fall asleep, until my chest has a small pulse again and I continue, I don't know what else to do.