Breathe.

I think about writing.

I write, then I delete.

It feels like dirty laundry.

I want to scream.

I want to know why.

Some questions may never be answered.

Make your peace, they say.

Easier said than done.

Breathe, I tell myself.

Breathe and it will be okay.

Breathe. Put one foot ahead of the other. Breathe again.

It will be okay.

We’ll be okay.

I tell myself, make your peace.

What is gone may never come back.

Just breathe.

The air feels like poison.

It burns my lungs.

But breathe.

It will pass.

My spirit takes a beating.

I’m in a free fall.

But look up, always.

Look up.

Maybe we die.

But at least we die with stars in our eyes.

Maybe we fall.

But at least our spirits take flight.

Maybe we live.

Broken, bruised, bleeding.

But at least we live.

Another day we breathe.

The air is poison, but we breathe.

Our stories still go on.

Maybe we disappear.

But at least we were here.

Our voices were heard.

At least we had voices.

We had heartbeats.

Maybe no one listened.

But at least we had hearts.

Just breathe.