I Can’t Breathe

Facebook memes taught me that, instead of facing my fear of needles, I could instead pretend I conscientiously object to vaccination programs, now my lungs are riddled with Covid and I can’t breathe.

Sitting in my legally parked car eating a zinger burger was such an affront to the existence of an off-duty klansman that he put his boot on my neck and now I can’t breathe.

I wiggled my little hedgehog nose into a plastic bag because vine fucking tomatoes have to be hermetically sealed for sale or a petrochemical heir won’t be able to afford his 17th Lamborghini and now I can’t breathe.

My employer reclassified my job as a hobby and hobbies don’t come with sick pay or medical insurance, so now I’m living in a loophole, sat in an unheated flat cultivating pneumonia and I can’t breathe.

A couple of breeders 100km upwind thought a pyrotechnic was the best way to communicate that their newly minted child comes with its own penis, now I’m chocking down burnt tree and I can’t breathe.

I’m reading about all this chaos and misery and greed and sickness and it feels like it’s closing in around me, getting nearer every day and it feels like my throat is closing up and I can’t breathe.

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