Paper Lungs

Centuries now, that this story has passed
dribbled of the cracked, bleeding lips
bile stinging the open sores of
my people.
God has never set foot in this part of the country
never looked into financing a home
never enrolled his chidlren in our ruins of a school system.

He took one look at our skeletons
at our cracked teeth
and vowed never to put his family through this again,
then he got the hell out of this cesspool of gargling delirium.

It was only hours ago that I truly felt his absence,
in the stale air that I find so refreshing;
I took a staggering breath and regretted it immediately
ten thousand morbid realizations
but one floated dead to the surface of my swampy brain:
I have been alotted so many breaths,
and I've been wasting them.

Doctors explained that my lungs are the worst they've ever seen,
"Two brown withered scraps of tissue paper,
hanging from rusty farm hooks, Ms. Smith
what have you done to your body?"
Self medication of sixty cigarettes daily
and they shake their head.
I ask them if they can prescribe another reason
to get out of bed in the morning
except nagging, digging addiction.

They hand me the prescription as I hop off their table,
and tell me to have a good day,
Yeah... right.

The pharmacist smiles and accepts the note,
quits smiling, exits and reenters with a bible,
eyes my existence.

Yeah... right.

And did you know that churches won't buy bibles
from people who have track marks
or hollow guts
crooked rib cages
itching balls
curly hair
desperation
vulnerability
dark thoughts
curses from their enemies?

So I gave it to them for free
and I saw them toss it into a pile of ratty others,
tall and crawling with maggots
like the piles of filth in our landfills.

No, god never settled here.
I'm only twenty
I shouldn't have this demon on my hip.
The sulphuric bitterness is seeping from my capillaries
and through my pores.
I smell like death,
I carry hints of the cologne from the man
who abandoned the worst of me
and he's only a man.

This ward wreaks of the illness.