Some writers say that, to them, writing is like breathing;

 I'm really good at holding my breath; 

My chest swells

Throat thick and heavy...

 Maybe I'm asthmatic-- 

Lungs creased and folded like a crumpled piece of paper

They don't work well, but at least when they do, they're pretty;

Origami

Worthy of display until the air runs out.

Maybe I'm just a thrill seeker,

Someone who likes the breath of peril on my neck; 

Welcomes the brushstrokes of nearly dying 

Only to gasp in new life again. 

Maybe I just breathe differently: 

Not with lungs, but with gills.

I'll live in a puddle or a fishbowl and envy the oceans-- 

Wait for the air to taste sweet enough for me to drink it every day.

My exhale hollows me out

Leaves me waiting

Atmosphere stale again,

But at least I haven't fainted yet