When did breathing get so hard.
My lungs expand part way before they catch on something.
I know I’m getting enough air to live, but I don’t feel like it’s enough to live.
It feels like a heavy blanket dragging my chest down every time it tries to rise.
I am gasping for air even though I know it’s right there.
It’s everywhere but inside me.
I can see it on a flower, on a quivering leaf, in a ray of sunlight, in you, in her.
Everywhere but inside me.