My chest trembles with coffee grounds and whooping coughs. What is it that breathes? Is it my lungs or me?

My hair hides a locked door and a small window. I can see out but can't get through fully.

My hands are too cold to hold onto but you won’t let me go. What is there to memorialize while I’m still alive?

The body is a mistake. We spend our lives undoing what was made. We've been built, but we’re not complete. We exist but are we worth remembering?

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