Breathing too loud

The house is silent except

for the slow, uneven rise

and fall of my chest against

thin cotton sheets—too loud,

like a leak in the dark.

I try to slow it, press my palm

against ribs, but the breath

barges through quiet like

an uninvited guest, stubborn

and ragged, a drum behind closed doors.

In the stillness, every gasp

feels like a confession,

like the sound itself wants

to be noticed, to be caught

and held until it breaks.