And Then She Opened Her Mouth

Everyday I am drowning.

With every inhale, air sinks into my lungs, as heavy as an anchor. With every exhale, carbon dioxide leaves my lips in a harsh whisper. It gets harder and harder to breathe each time, until I don't want to anymore.

I look in the mirror and I exhale with disappointment, just like my mother and just like my friends.

"What happened to you?" I ask myself.

But I already know the answer.

I lost the light in my eyes. I lost the determination behind each breath, that puff of air that whispered about purpose, whispered about hopes and dreams. I lost the skip in my step and I lost the feeling my fingertips get when I press my hands to my throat and sing.

I lost my voice.

And that is something I think I cannot live without.