Purge

My in-breath panics the lungs, scrapes short. Space crawls away from the rib cage. Calm disappears in one cough — then a Zen monk squeaks Om from my throat, but the in-breath runs riot, rattles the crown, turns Zapatista leading the charge, backed up by a trillion ragtag cells, as blood begins to clog with balaclavas, militia stomping for liberty. I bolt. Taste mucus and iron. Spit acid and salt.