the habit of breathing

my first poem!

the dishes pile up again
while i practice being dead
lying still beneath the weight
of air turned lead.

my friends text *where have you been*
but typing back takes seven tries
each word a mountain i can't climb
each excuse a practiced lie.

and the world keeps spinning
while i'm stuck inside my head,
how the sun still dares to rise
when i can't leave my own bed.

i've memorized the ceiling's cracks,
named every shadow on the wall.
tomorrow i'll be better.
i'll return the call.

but tomorrow is a country
i can never seem to reach,
and healing is a language
i was never taught to speak.

so i float here in the nothing,
in the humming, hollow space
where breathing is a habit
and living is a race

i'm too tired to run,
too stubborn to quit.