Please, I’m Just Trying To Breathe

When the air turns against me. A midnight suffocation

Photo by SHAYAN Rostami on Unsplash

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The corridors narrow, a closing room, A heavy vault sinking into the chest, As if a great book of unspoken regrets Is pressed on the ribs where the secrets rest.

You reach for the world through a bent plastic straw, Pinched at the center by invisible hands, While the soul is an accordion trapped in the dark, Its folds glued together by tightening bands.

It feels like a door that is rusted and chained, A high-pitched scream from a hinge in the wall, Where every attempt to just open the space Is met with a shadow that smothers it all.

The air is a blade, but the exit is barred, A rubber band wrapped round the neck of the mind, Trapping the panic, a suffocating plot, Leaving the warmth of the daylight behind.

The walls of the throat are a tunnel of ash, A raw, ragged line where the embers still scrape, It feels almost bloody, a crimson mistake, A deep, tearing wound that can find no escape.

Each swallow is glass, each breath is a thorn, As the lining is stripped by a merciless fire, Leaving you trapped in a body of stone, Straining against a declining desire.

The chest gets much heavier, sinking like lead, The atmosphere thickens and turns into stone, A desperate rhythm breaks out in the quiet, A sound of survival, completely alone.

Hmmm... huhhh... the dark echo begins, Aghh... hmm... a fractured, exhausting despair, As the throat closes down to a desperate thread, Clenching on every last atom of air.

Every microscopic fragment of space Is fought for and dragged to the base of the lungs, A violent theft from the room’s empty space, Spoken in fractured and agonizing tongues.

You grasp at the vacuum, you wrestle the void, Clutching the molecules tightly inside, But the chest is a cell that refuses to yield, Swallowing down all your comfort and pride.

And midnight arrives with a terrible weight, Though the room is quite still and the evening is warm, The guardians vanish, the internal clock strikes, And leaves you alone in a shattering storm.

The rhythm is broken, the hours are flipped, The tide of the blood is beginning to turn, Exposing the raw, unprotected design To a deep, internal, and merciless burn.

The framework is seized by a trembling current, A shivering phantom that vibrates the skin, An adrenaline ghost that sets fire to the pulse, While a silent, invisible war rages within.

The muscles are twitching, the fingers are weak, A baseline of terror that starts to expand, As you wait for the storm in your fibers to break, Holding your breath in a desolate land.

So you sit very upright, a statue of stone, Refusing to lean or to lay yourself low, For to bend is to swallow the ashes of grief And choke out the embers that fitfully glow.

You watch from the dark as the rest of them sleep, A prisoner bound to a straight-backed chair, Counting the beats of a racing machine, Trading your peace for a fraction of air.

Yet next to the bed, a dark sweetness awaits, The sap of the palm like an ancient relief, A thick, soothing shield for a throat that has burned, To soften the edges of physical grief.

The medicine waits for the trembling to clear, A slow, quiet promise to open the gate, Till the bands loosen up and the shadows recede, And the lungs can finally carry the weight.

Author’s Note

For anyone wondering if I’m okay… I am. If you noticed I haven’t been writing much lately, I’ve been sick with the flu for almost a week.

The unexpected plot twist: this poem wasn’t a metaphor for a hidden emotional battle. It was my lungs giving me a very dramatic real-life experience.

Today I had to go to the hospital and get nebulised because of heavy wheezing. The struggle for breath, the heaviness, and the fear I described in the poem came from that moment. 💛

*Paulia Dianz ❃*

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