Glass Lung

For him, I place my heart in a glass bottle,
seal it airtight until I forget the taste of air.

My body learns this first—the tightening chest,
ribs aching like they remember hands.

My mouth stays open, waiting,
wanting something it refuses to name.

He presses the bottle into his palm.
Heat travels.

My pulse flares, frantic—
a small animal throwing itself at glass.

I get wet with wanting,
the way breath fogs a window.

Slow. Involuntary.
Proof I’m still alive inside restraint.

My thighs hold the memory of him
long after he leaves the room,

long after oxygen becomes a rumor.
Desire turns physical—lungs burning,

spine arching toward nothing,
my body begging in a language

my mouth will not speak.
I learn how hunger pools,

how it builds a home between my legs,
how it softens me into obedience.

If the glass trembles, it’s because I’m shaking.
If it’s warm, it’s because I’m burning.

I would let him keep me here—
breathless, aching,

faithful to the pressure of his gaze.
Somewhere between suffocation & surrender,

I confuse containment for care,
control for intimacy,

this burning chest for love.
For him,

I stop asking for air
& teach my body

how to survive
on wanting alone.

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