i scratch at my skin because i hope to peel it off,
find a second layer of skin,
perhaps a better me underneath.
i will take everything apart
and i would not be surprised if i found
a knife deep inside,
because it would explain why it hurts when i move the wrong way,
why it hurts to breathe.

there are particles in my lungs
too small to see
and people tell me they’re just stardust,
they’re just you,
when i don’t get out of bed in the morning.

breathing is its own kind of bravery.
someone tried to choke me years ago
and i haven’t been able to exhale
without feeling the bruises purpling my throat,
the weight that still pins me down.
someone hated me
because i had the courage to breathe
and they shook me
until my bones rattled,
and they never quite fell back into place.