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The air rushes into my body,
stopping, starting, stopping,
sputtering.
Like I am breathing underwater.
Like I am breathing for the first time.
Pressure pushes my lungs to take in oxygen again,
quick, short, jarring,
sputtering.
It does not flow.
It happens again and again,
as though the air were poison,
and I do not, cannot, take it in.
But there is no poison, there is just life.
There is no rhythm to my breath,
no systematic in and out,
pulsing my blood throughout my body,
causing my heart to lub and to dub.
There is just spastic contraction and expulsion of air,
of life.
There is no control.
There is a smell.
The plastic smell of latex;
sterile and musty at the same time.
And the light is dispersed here.
Lucid.
I hear raindrops, but I don't feel the wet splash
of drops landing, kissing my face.
I remember how it should feel.
I remember how it should smell.
I remember how rhythmic my breath should be
when I breathe in and exhale out.
There used to be a rhythm to my breath,
a rhythm to my life.
And now all it feels
is like I am drowning.