Lungs
By Jess Wilkinson
there’s a weight pressing
down on my chest that’s
been there since last year.
i’m beginning to wonder,
is this what adulthood is?
i’m only twenty
and i already fear
that my lungs refuse
to inflate to their
full capacity.
i spent my weekend
pulling pints, pouring
shots, racing up and down
stairs with a tray, all
the while forcing air
in, out, in out. it’s
unfortunate that
I have to strain my
organs to perform
their only function.
i’m on the verge of
wheezing, fainting or
tripping at all times.
there’s doctors, nurses,
appointments in throes
it’s anxiety,
its asthma, your iron.
take propranolol,
take this inhaler,
take these vitamins.
and yet i still feel
that tightness. Like a
piece of balloon stretched,
binding my chest down so
i breathe in half inches.
i breathe in hard, so
hard that my chest shakes
and my sternum presses against the boundary
between my flesh and the air, never
breaking through, but the pressure is so
tight that i feel like it could, and i
let my lungs deflate
before my torso
bursts open.
i am still able
to take in air, to savour the
icy cleanser of a winter morning,
to feel my head flooding
with summer warmth,
but i am starved for
oxygen itself.
like i’m at feast,
but with my mouth and
hands bound, and still, if
i battle free, my
lips are met with dust
and cotton, the wine
turned tepid water,
food made flavourless.
maybe I’m
sensitive.
i still have
my health. but
am i tru-
ly that luck-
y if i
feel like i’m
being fuck-
ing crushed all
the
time