I Forgot How to Breathe

I used to breathe
without thinking.

Now
every inhale
feels like a battle.

Not outside
inside.

My chest tightens
without warning.

Not pain
just pressure.

The weight
of what I can’t name.

I sit still,
but it feels like drowning.

My hands cold.
My lips dry.
My eyes lost.

I whisper,
“I’m fine.”

But my body knows
I’m not.

Something invisible
chokes the silence.

It pulls at me.
It stretches my nerves.

I try to focus.
Count the breaths.
In… out…
In… out…

Still not calm.

Still not okay.

I want someone
to notice.

But when they ask,
I smile.

Because explaining
feels harder
than the panic.

Because breaking
feels louder
than silence.

I live
between heartbeats.

Between moments
where I forget
how to live
without fear.

But I’m still here.

Still trying.
Still breathing
even if every breath
feels borrowed.