It smells like burned plastic. Like my mother's room on a Saturday morning, the curling iron resting on the sink. Everyone around me covers their faces with their arms, their scarves. "The smell...it's too much." I am the only one who enjoys it. I inhale, exhale. My lungs finally feel big, like white garbage bags that have never been used. For the first time in a long while, I can take in the world without the stress, the drama, the neverending battle I have with confronting my fears. I am calm.
I stand enveloped by fire, but I know I will make it out. For I will use my lungs and breathe as hard as I can, like the Big Bad Wolf and a brick house, like a child and a birthday cake.
There's no such thing as a dead end.
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