What I Can't Control

The stairs won't let me catch my breath.

I grip the metal—cold and steady—

and my hand shakes against it.

In the meeting room nobody says anything

but I know they see it:

the pause where breathing should be,

the silence I'm holding in my ribs,

the moment my lungs remember

they have work to do.

I try to feel my own chest from the outside,

press my palm against my ribs

like if I push hard enough

I can force the air back in.

The railing is cold.

My hand is not.

The metal holds still

while my breath comes back

in short, hot bursts,

and I pretend I'm fine,

that my body isn't a thing

I have to negotiate with

every time I climb

and every time I speak

and every time

I try to be normal in a room

full of people who breathe

without thinking about it.