Ragged Breaths in the Dark

I lay down—silence wrapping

thinner than the threadbare shirt I wear.

My chest rises like a tired wave,

falls uneven, stubborn air

scraping raw—cough-split,

ragged engine wheezing against the night.

Outside, the city fades,

lamps hum quiet, a distant throb,

but here, each breath is louder,

a wet drumbeat

catching, snaring like a trap

snapped tight inside my ribs.

Counting seconds between pulls—

a lost rhythm no one taught me,

just this broken rhythm,

huff and wheeze,

that stitches the dark,

holds me hostage in my own skin.

I try to slow it, wish it

could drown in the hum of cars or

someone else's voice, anything

but this brittle sound,

this cold noise

of being stuck inside myself.