There's a fire raging deep within the chambers of my lungs and it's spreading. It's spreading, crossing the mountains and forests that bind my ribs, and burning every seed you planted there.

It starts off as a flutter, a quiet drum, expanding and shrinking. Swelling and contracting. As it spreads, it continues to intensify; like ripping a bandaid off. Ripping a bandaid off. Ripping a bandaid off over and over. It's angrier now, expanding and swelling, with no time to shrink. It courses through my veins, staining rage on its depths.

I think I am about to implode. My insides are but ash, yet I can't seem to cough you up.

I am but a box; so empty, yet so filled with you.