There are some words that just sound exactly like what they are. They taste like how they feel when they play across your teeth. Bite. Love. Choke. Breathe.
I’m the world record champion for holding my breath. I held my breath once for twenty minutes. Then I held it for five months. Then I held it for one year.
The ghosts stole my breath and replaced it with shattered glass that got caught in my lungs until I was exhaling blood where the carbon dioxide should be. Then I coughed out all the glass and picked up a pocket of air that was hiding at the back of my closet. I swaddled it like a baby and kissed its forehead. As I did, the breath found its way back in.
My eyeliner wings were blacker and longer and the breath had a faint air of raspberries and happiness as it caressed the world around it.