The air inside grows stuffy
Filled with the smell of my own exhalation
Memories of a miasma which I did not perceive until
I breathed it in and out and in again
And I shudder at the stink of it
Parts of myself I had thought cast out only
To be taken in again
Uncelebrated prodigal children
Given no inheritance
But still better breathing than
What I must otherwise inhale
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