The Patch Poem by Thad Enouf

The clear, plastic square tears off
like a band-aid,
a red tattoo in it's place
on my skin,
saving my lungs
from it's bittersweet sting.

I can breathe again,
her birthday roses pungent,
tall and yellow in their vase,
only to droop and wither
when celebration ends,
the will to win no more.

I want to inhale that evil smoke
into my lungs,
opening passageways and relaxing
my anxiety,
certain of a painful end,
a slow, silent killer.

I replace the square to opposite arm,
refusing to feed the hunger
to hurt myself,
to gasp for sweet air,
to face the rest of my days full-on,
if only to smell those flowers once more.