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I got one of those binders that zips on the side recently, but I've been having to keep it undone since I've had trouble breathing. I don't think it's because of that since I've always been like this, even when I was little. The binder is mainly there for some sort of comfort even if it's not doing anything. 

Earlier I felt the unzipped seam, like a gash torn into in my side. It reminded me of Adam's rib, the warm wound it must've caused. There's something there I can't quite remember. Even now I try to recall but I can't, all I can feel is the air leaving my lungs and straining to re-enter and the ringing in my ears caused by silence. It's like a million muffled cicadas who scream because they know they're dying. That the life they've waited for is almost over. That they tore themselves from the earths womb and then their own skin only for it to last a few weeks.

There are cicadas out there older than I, that have been underground for nearly twenty years. If I were to be a cicada I might still be underground, warm and blind and as happy as ignorance allows us. It wouldn't be much longer, but it'd be worth it. To peel back all the skin, to be lovely, even just for a bit. At least I'd be able to scream before I'd die, instead of going out in silence. At least my voice and air wouldn't have been ripped from me like a rib.