I am unsure….If it is this place.      Or if it these people Or these people and who they make me become ----- I can feel the breathe clinging to my lungs reluctant to make its escape; into an environment that is somehow less hospitablethan the one that uses it up and spits it out.          I am unsure how this works this way. Writing comes to save the escaping breathe-----and make it into something more than used up oxygen:My breathe is only because of being able to write,otherwise some dark place inside my head,             battling my hearts’ automatic repetitions,would take the breathe stranded inside the cage;undoubtedly and irrevocably.