There's water where I want for air.
There's fire fed by flesh and ash.
There's thunder coming before the storm.
My bones slowly beating a warning on the drums of war.
It's a war I'll never win.
I wasn't made to win. It's not my fate to win.
I'm not made for Earth, not made of earth.
I'm an extraplanar elemental,
exemplary in the ways I don't belong.
I'm reminded every time the morning breaks
and instead of an alarm
my body's aches provide the song.
I was made to know Neptune and Jupiter,
my sinews and fluids the Oracle singing to the tune of rain.
I live as if this is Venus, the poison gas, the volcanic glass,
broken, choking, and wheezing. Just breathing is pain.
Just being is pain.
I am a being in pain.
Feeling the rain in my uneven gait.
Feeling the flame in my stuttering veins.
Feeling the storm of a misfiring brain.
I wade in the minefield of a war made by fate,
genetic and chronic, incurably late and far beyond tonics,
foregone and shell-shocked, war-forged and Hell-wrought,
for what smith gifts such brittleness but an infinitely hellish one?
No, save your pity, it's done, my every invisible illness has already won.
Like I said, it's a war and I'm forever outgunned.
It can only be dulled but never outrun.
I am both the war and the field of battle.
I am both the shore and the sea that crashes upon the rocks.
I am both the fire and the ashes left behind.
I am both the storm and the tree the lightning smites.
I'll never win.
But I'll survive.