Joints ache. Breath comes short and sharp. Wake up or die.

[collier_mckay]

Your body is not behaving anymore. Mutiny is the cry from cell to cell in the prison of your skin. Revolution against the body politic, conspiracies marrow-deep. The surface signs are subtle but legion. The story on the inside is written large and black on the walls of your lungs, or spreading and growing, writing itself anew daily in what used to be your prostate. Can you hear it? The shaking in your hands is morse code, if only you knew how to translate. The hair at your temples has already fled before the attack. You are not a machine, you're a colony, and the tyrant is always laid low by his subjects.

Every cigarette, every drink, every day that passes in pain, pleasure or blithe indifference brings reinforcements to your rebellious frame.

"How do you feel?" they ask, and through the holes in your teeth you lie. You ignore the signs of struggle and straighten your crown while behind your failing eyes the answer is plain.

You are dying. One day at a time.