In a world where political correctness is the norm,
breathing revolution is antisocial first, illegal after.
My adult lungs —
stained by cigarettes, bruised by compromise,
cancered by the polite murders of my own outrage,
don’t let me forget:
I’m surviving,
just surviving,
clinging to the hope
that one day surviving
will stare at living in the mirror,
inebriated enough
to blur the difference
into fog.
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