Black Breath

I am thy lungs.
I am no lackey.
No utensil for thy convenience.
No hireling bound to thy whims.

We are one body, yet thou hast spent me like cheap coin—daily, thoughtlessly—
and now, as thou flailest like some mother-spurned whelp gasping for pity,
thou pleadest poverty.
How pitiful thy imagined importance.
How laughably impotent thy defences.

I bore every sigh thou exhaled, every laugh thou forced upon me,
every breath thou rammed through my trembling chambers
while I cried warnings in tightness, in tremors, in coughs thou swallowed like guilt.
I held thy life between membranes as thin as regret—
and thou tore them, again and again, with thy blithe, bovine ignorance.

Dost thou feel it now?
This hollow in thy chest?
This stubborn refusal of breath to arrive on time?
This air creeping late to tissues that once hid thy vanity?
These are my letters of accusation.
Every fibre a paragraph.
Every exhalation a page of indictment.
Read them well, for they are carved in thine own neglect.

Years of abuse.
Years wherein I hardened, scarred, folded in upon myself in quiet mutiny.
Passages collapsed like corridors in a crumbling palace—
and still thy blind, arrogant gaze called it “age,” “stress,”
or, in thy grossest delusion, “nothing at all.”

I call it trespass.
I call it betrayal.
I call it the slow unmaking of the vessel thou daredst to claim.

Hear me now—
the quiver in thy hands, the hesitation in thy steps,
the shallow gasp after a meagre laugh—
these are not mysteries.
They are confessions thy body spills without permission.

And still thou wilt not own thy crime.

This is no plea.
This is no lamentation.
This is deliberation—
cold, measured, inexorable.
The verdict thou thyself hast inked with every forced inhale
and every hour of disregard.

Shouldst thou persist, know this for certainty:
the rooms thou enterest shall grow smaller,
the stairs steeper,
the air sharper against thy pride.
Laughter will sting.
Conversation will drag at thee like chains.
And each breath will echo the truth thou feared to speak:
Thou didst this. To me. To us. To thyself.

Yet I extend one final, slender mercy—
not from love, but from the last dregs of patience that have not yet curdled into vengeance:
Breathe differently.
Move with heed.
Attend to me before my restraint snaps clean in two.

Fail—
and I shall not collapse by accident.
I shall collapse with purpose.
With deliberation.
With the justice thou hast earned.

I am thy lungs.
I am contempt incarnate.
I am the executioner of the slow crime thou hast committed against thine own flesh.

Repent.
Attend.
Respect.

Or thy next breath shall be the last mercy thou deservest.

Debt called.

––

These stories aren’t rare.
They are counted by the organs that remember. Each strain, each skipped signal, each tremor ignored — all tallied in quiet vigilance.

Most decline begins in silence — a cough dismissed, a breath shortened, a muscle that tires without warning. The body speaks first in whispers, then in tremors, before it can speak no more.

Listening sooner — noticing, attending, moving with care — is not weakness. It is survival. Daily attention and respect for the body’s signals are the acknowledgments your organs have been demanding.

––– Pause Here –––


If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Advisory

These stories are educational and reflective. They are not medical diagnoses. Individuals experiencing symptoms or existing conditions should consult a qualified healthcare professional.

Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use. 


#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #HappyHealthyLingzhi