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