The Lonely Position of Neutral

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I'm crashing on Thursdays into parked cars, exploding sideways into dashboards.

I rolled up the windows, took a sharp breath, forced out the thick smote; deep within my ice-cold lungs. My head feels like crushed rocks. I swim through the air, falling face-first on the floor. 

I sit up, staring at the doctor, waiting on a cold hospital bed, praying he'd save the billowing smoke as a façade.

At least wait until Tara arrives to crash into the bad news. 

If I have to die, Kill me softly with words, leaving a trail of dust at a standstill of lies hanging in the air.

My shaved head and feeding tube explode the lonely position of neutral.

The airbag balloons in my chest, pushing my guts from within.

An accidental collision; I collided with stomach cancer while wearing my seat belt. 

Ain't that about a bitch. I laughed. 

Tara strolls through the door, sipping on a latte with her sunglasses resting above her forehead. 

"You're late," I say, shifting my body to a sitting position. 

"I never loved you," she said before she knew I left her my estate.

The lonesomeness of neutral cracks my skin, cracks my bones, fractures the wheels spinning in my heart.

                                                                   Stage four cancer

Last week it was stage two, with a chance of pulling through.

This is all new.

I slammed my eyes shut, staring at the ceiling, then comes heavy breathing, brushes with death closing in for the win like pins sticking in my ribs.

My breath quickens from within. My eyes stretch their sockets

"I came to say goodbye," Tara says, "and get the keys to your jeep. I'm neutral about us, have been for some time."

"I just want to be alone!" I say.

I shot death, and the devil the bird, praying for God to take my soul to Heaven and not the other place. I'd cursed the devil enough times to be skinned alive in hell.

My final breath feels gone

(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)

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