My body my breath

pockets of space where once was constriction.

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 then


and next time i draw in, my breath flows that bit deeper, and i find just a bit more space.


my body my breath.

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