Breathing

Breath stutters in my throat,
air stops short,
like a heavy hand pressed flat against my ribs.

The room blurs.
Thoughts swarm—
buzzing, colliding, refusing order.

Names land hard:
Renee Good.
Alex Pretti.
It echoes once, then again,
like a bell that won’t stop ringing.

At work, 
eyes slide past me,
voices sharpen,
respect withheld like a luxury I didn’t earn.

And beyond my walls,
a country shifts under my feet.
Home feels unstable,
like floorboards creaking in the dark.

I count my breaths the way I was taught—
in, out,
in, out—
grasping at seconds I can still name.
I tell myself: this moment, just this one.
A cup in my hand.
Light through the window.
The sound of my own heartbeat proving I’m here.

Sometimes it works.
Sometimes laughter slips in unannounced.
For a moment, the noise goes quiet.

Then fear returns.

It wears many faces:
tomorrow,
my sisters’ safety,
my father’s voice raised in protest,
his body standing where anger gathers.

Images intrude—
people punished for refusing silence,
families pulled apart at borders drawn in ink and power,
bodies made examples of.

Still, my lungs expand.
Still, morning arrives.

I lower my gaze, choose familiar streets,
familiar hands,
places where my name is spoken gently.
In a church that welcomes questions,
I sit among strangers who feel less like strangers.
We share quiet, shared songs, shared hope—
thin, but real.

It doesn’t fix everything.
It doesn’t have to.

I grip hope like a lifeline,
knuckles white,
refusing to loosen my hold.

Fear is a weapon.
I know this.
I see how it’s used.

So I breathe anyway.
I stay.
I resist in the smallest ways—
by loving,
by hoping,
by refusing to disappear.