I travel the world, yet I see nothing but glimpses. I’m left with teeth marks from carelessness. I’m covered in a powdery chemical and my cold metal core is protected by a dented, scratched, red plastic shell. I breathe life into one, but I run out of life myself. I wait for the next inhaler to replace me. All I do is give. All any of us do is give. I only bestow my breath so another can safely jog a lap. Our lives are put on a counter. A little plastic screen showing how many breaths I can share. And when that counter hits zero and I’m shaken— I sound empty. I’m tossed. I’m replaced.