I run a putty knife between the popcorn
and the ceiling,
sure
to catch each broken peak in my mouth.

I am learning to breathe through hard things.

As my lungs top off,
I scream something vague about happiness
– that my legacy will not
be carved on stone the wrong tint of renter’s beige
– that my body brims with kernels
– and that when they grow,
they will jolt my muscles from position,
leaving me –
should I dare to walk again –
only marginally greater than a jellyfish
willing itself over land,
hoping
it might hurt someone enough to get some help.