Some writers say that, to them, writing is like breathing;
I’m really good at holding my breath;
My chest swells
Throat thick and heavy…
Maybe I’m asthmatic–
Lungs creased and folded like a crumpled piece of paper
They don’t work well, but at least when they do, they’re pretty;
Worthy of display until the air runs out.
Maybe I’m just a thrill seeker,
Someone who likes the breath of peril on my neck;
Welcomes the brushstrokes of nearly dying
Only to gasp in new life again.
Maybe I just breathe differently:
Not with lungs, but with gills.
I’ll live in a puddle or a fishbowl and envy the oceans–
Wait for the air to taste sweet enough for me to drink it every day.
My exhale hollows me out
Leaves me waiting
Atmosphere stale again,
But at least I haven’t fainted yet
Annee Clark is a seventeen-year-old aspiring author who also enjoys acting in theater as well as singing and playing her ukulele. She began writing as a young child, starting with short stories, and is now working on a fantasy novel reimagining the fairy tale of Little Red Riding Hood called Red as well as a poetry book which will (likely) be called Freckles and Constellations.