Crush

You are small.

Someone laughs. Girls should be seen and not heard.

You stop the sound.

Air still arrives. Less of it.

Told not to be rude.

You kiss the uncle. His hand stays.

Ribs learn polite.

You say no.

He hears yes.

You liked him. So it was you.

The next breath turns sideways to get through.

The raise goes to the one who asked.

You assumed they were watching.

They were not.

Something under the sternum sits down.

Bills on the table.

He will not. Cannot. Does not know how.

You pay. The house stays up.

The house does not thank you.

Too emotional in a file you never see.

You swallow it first.

The swallow uses air you needed later.

The pill is your problem.

Someone must. It will not be him.

Your body manages his ease.

The lungs do not get a vote.

A man explains your field to you.

You listen. Rude not to.

You nod in the space a sentence used to live.

Christmas table.

Managers hand on your leg.

You laugh. Shift. Do not tell.

The laugh costs the last easy inhale.

You marry. Happiest day, they say.

You cannot remember the vows.

The dress is beautiful.

The chest inside it is already spoken for.

You leave.

They call you bitter.

You are quieter than that.

You date again.

Kind. Not kind.

You cannot tell.

The body that tracked danger is busy staying open enough to live.

One afternoon. No reason.

Someone asks what you actually think.

You open your mouth.

Nothing.

They wait.

The sound is small.

Shaped like no.

The ribs do not break.

They remember they can move.

You say it again.

You do not apologise for the air it takes.

You stop listening politely.

Stop taking the pill no one discussed.

Stop remembering the passwords of a man who will not learn them.

Leave the party early.

Food tastes of something.

You take the room you were given at birth

and have been folding smaller ever since.

Air comes in.

A whole breath.

Then one that reaches the bottom.

You breathe.