there is space inside for all the imperfections within. the sadness and frustration and envy and loneliness, the anger and jealousy and lust. sometimes a whole whack of them, all in a row. i feel them sharply and deeply, draw them fully in –
as much as i can,
as much as i dare.
and in the sharpest edged second, of burning inheld breath, of torment and uncertainty and pain – i hold –
and next time i draw in, my breath flows that bit deeper, and i find just a bit more space.
my body my breath.