my guts are twisted inside me. all i ever feel anymore is the gas moving back and forth in the tunnels of my body, looking for an escape. an out. the pressure builds like a volcano trying to erupt under 15 miles of ocean. a constant struggle for freedom. the disease crawls up my chest and into my mouth, puddling along my jaws and my tongue to form sores. i become sickness. i am a blockage. my eyes are full of waste and filthy water. this can't be me. this can't be why i've come this far. there's more than this. right?

if i get any angrier i'll kill. if i go any farther i'll fall down an unclimbable cliff. a trail of finger sized tunnels and bloody skin fragments. and at the bottom of that cliff i'll die. and you won't see me. and i won't feel this.

but that's not what i want. that's not what anyone wants. we want to find the end. the destination. it's just that we get jaded. tired. banged up and pushed around and denied. it begins to hurt so much just to try. and the alternate, shorter route becomes more appealing.

but ease is not a substitute for satisfaction. and i will not deny myself the satisfaction of the end. the right end. my hands will crack and bleed and my feet will swell. bloody knees and elbows. missing teeth. hair ripped from roots. but the satisfaction of saying to the world, "i did it all for this and i never gave in" will be the justification for my pain.

i will not let it kill me. not now. not ever.

i am the bionic bowel. fear me.