To my lungs,
 

You were in a sound state seven years ago, when your mother used to spend all of her time steaming backyard veggies. You used to wear those cheering fats dangling around your belly, those cute packs of health that the doctor didn't call obesity or neglect. You used to ramble around the hills all day, climbing up guava or avocado trees. Even if you fell on your left arm, you were still in a sound state.
 
You were prosperous in love and care; the day you used to visit your grandma's house, you never felt hungry physically, psychologically, or spiritually. You just realized that she taught you to take vitamins, milk, the Bible, and kindness in everyday life.
 
But what happened to you? You breathed in bad habits, instant food, street smoke, dust, red meat, and some mislaid passions. And you breathed out tea-scented air, candle aroma, and hope. You breathed out hope.
 
And you loved being the sun on fake planets.
 
I deeply apologize for not taking care of you. When I met the stethoscope, it told me to breathe fresher air and destroy the electrons residing in my brain.
 
I apologize for abusing your restrictions, for acting like this choker was a natural disaster, and for blaming society for burning fuel.
 

Respectfully,
© ubik