All it takes is thirteen seconds
to speak
to listen
to vomit
to cry
to yell
to shoot
to die
to live.

T. h. i. r. t. e. e. n. s e c o n d s . . .
No more,
no less,
and even the yearning of the young
won't change that.

They say it's a fever that consumes me, burns me up with zeal and cynicism and might and frailty. I can't speak, but I can move, and from actions to reactions to distractions I am there. I can't seem to concentrate, yet I'm wholly involved in this tragic misconception of a chemist's nightmare. I know it's not good for me, but
acoupleouncesisallittakestofeelfreewithlightningspeedalittlesputterandsnifflingbutitiswellworththemechanicaldeathand e x h a l a t i o n
it's so exquisite...
like the finalized loss of a first-time mother.

It isn't a choice.
It isn't an option.
It's an i m p u l s e or e x p u l s i o n.
(And I'll be damned if it's the latter)