Breathwork.

I cry as quietly as I can in the bathroom. Because I don’t want to talk about it all. Don’t want to have to explain myself. 

I just want to cry. I don’t want to think about what everything means, what’s next or what could be. I’m terrified.

I’m terrified that she will have cancer.

I’m terrified that even if she doesn’t, my brother still does.

And that no matter what happens nothing will be any different. 

It all feels so far away. Like I am looking through a telescope at people I have never really known far off in space. 

Far off somewhere I cannot seem to find a way to reach. 

I say too many words. I feel too many feelings. 

Always and forever, just too fucking much. 

I’m tired of being half myself so I don’t exist too loudly, or take up too much space. I’m tired and I’m angry. 

Anger. 

Now there’s an emotion I don’t know how to feel. 

It fills me up. I contain so many gallons of it but I don’t know where it is inside of me. Always on the tip of my tongue, like an obscure fact you can’t seem to recall when you need to. 

I want to get it out of me but I don’t want to break the seal. 

It’s a hum through my flesh. 

An implosion waiting to happen. 

Last year I learnt to breathe deeply. 

Without choking on my own withholding. But with it came tears. 

Uncontrollable tears. Because I’m learning, if you breathe in deeply enough you can’t avoid meeting the pain on the way down and letting it out.