My friends are dying. Aren’t yours? It seems like weekly. I hope it’s not contagious. I want to die later after I learn how to breathe without wearing my shoulders like bunny ears. I want to wait until my chest stays open for most of the day and my hands don’t clench or claw. I want some days during which soft is the first word you’d use to describe me—well, maybe the second. No. I don’t want to die today. The weather is perfect. The flowers are budding. But still, that cramp. My country is dying. It’s melting like cheese. Yes, exactly like that. Orange and oily.

O. America. You’re breaking our hearts.