Asphyxiated

I think I’m drowning—

not in water,

but in something heavier.

Air that won’t reach me.

Rooms that feel too small

no matter how wide they are.

A pressure in my chest

like something’s sitting there

and refusing to move.

I keep breathing—

or at least

I go through the motion of it.

In,

out,

in—

but it doesn’t land.

Doesn’t fill me

the way it’s supposed to.

Like oxygen

forgot my name.

Everything feels distant,

muffled,

like I’m hearing life

from underwater

while pretending

I’m still on the surface.

I smile when I have to.

Answer when I’m asked.

Move through moments

like I’m not quietly

losing the ability

to feel them.

And no one notices.

Because drowning

doesn’t always look like panic.

Sometimes

it looks like stillness.

Like silence.

Like someone

standing right in front of you

who forgot

how to breathe.

I don’t need saving—

not loudly,

not dramatically.

I just need

one full breath

that doesn’t feel borrowed.

One moment

where my chest

remembers

what it means

to open

without fear

of closing again.