What of the Breath?

Isn’t it odd,
How something so precious,
So light and so powerful
—Like breath—
Can be ripped away so quickly,
So carelessly?
That it can be discarded like
Old rags?
Crushed swiftly and silently like
An ant crawling along your fingertips?

Isn’t it odd that when we are mad,
We are told to breathe deeply?
To not make a scene.
To use our breath to placate ourselves.
To use it to protect us from
Rage
And stress
And angrier men with fingers wrapped around
Triggers,
And knees pressed on necks.

Yes, isn’t it odd, that we are taught
To breathe when we are
Filled to the brim with
Fear.
And pain.
And tears.
And they are just taught to kill?