In All These Rooms Where I Can’t Breathe

Prose Poetry

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Sometimes it starts

with a

stutter

and I think of all the places I could try to escape.

But there’s no way out. The people crowd in, champagne glasses stuck to their hands, and their laughter feels like a physical force that could drop-kick me at any moment.

Other times it starts

with a

question

that I can’t bring myself to answer.

The silence crashes against me, and I feel my face heat like a lamp left on too long on a humid evening with no air conditioning to blot out the rising temperature. I can feel my hands shake — stop, stop, stop — and all I want to do is find a corner where I can take a breath and not feel like collapsing.

Then there are moments

where I

linger

just to say I tried, even against all the dominoes waiting to tumble against me.

I never get enough credit for trying. It’s always like this — “Do you want to live your life all alone? Because that’s where you’re headed. Try to put some effort in.” — but I clamp down on the defensive words that rise up in my gullet. It’s no use starting…