Lungs.

I thought weighted blankets were meant to be comforting.

Funny how the sky somehow doesn’t seem as bright, the heat more suffocating. The air just feels…so, so very thick. Heavy. I sit in a part of the park I remember laying reading in a few years ago- I recall the feeling of freedom. Before. Before covid, before cancer. Before before before. It seems like a different world. An alternate reality. 

I can’t reach it anymore. That lightness of being.

There’s a constriction of my chest. A limit to my breath.

I feel wounded and pathetic. I can’t grasp the delusional hope I lived with my entire life until now. 

The child in me. Where the fuck has she gone? 

I don’t know how to look after her, I think she’s hiding from me.