how to find relief

cough up the map.

let it spatter to the floor, wet and wrinkled, wrenched free

of all the secrets you swallowed with it.

laugh hoarse and bitter at the lines you drew

before you knew what you know now, before

your dreams rattled you awake every night,

when you thought relief

meant something other than an unchoked breath,

when relief meant comfort,

and not the gasp between

what just hit and what's on the horizon.

it's still there, though.

the lines you drew

with as steady a hand as you could

still lead to that gentle air,

the stuff that lives between your face

and the shoulder

of someone

who cares.