Sun, 06/22/2014 - 22:54 -- CELINEA

panic arches in my gut,

deep and visceral pain 

and i can't breathe,

can't see,

can't hear 


but the relentless beat of a butterfly's wing

against my rib cage

only it is not as graceful or 


as it sounds

i choke on nothing,

my body folds in half and my 


cradle my knees,

pull them closer to my chest as i try to 

hold myself together


hold myself together

tears of frustration well in my eyes,

fall as i try to make myself understood


i do not know why i am crying

i do not know why i cannot breathe,

i only know that it hurts,

right under my


it hurts

fingers cold as ice grip my lungs,

seize them for their own,

steal them away from my

empty chest cavity

and eyes like stone watch,


as i suffocate in my own fear

 i am dying

i am sure of it.


it doesn't stop, it doesn't go away

and it definitely doesn't get better

i am a freak

that cocoons herself every night in three blankets

with four pillows and eight teddy bears surrounding her

i am a freak

that cries only when no one else can see

and as i write

i can feel the slimy tendrils of panic's grip

begin to worm their way inside my skin

and worry overcomes me

worry for the future

worry for the past

worry for myself

and my family

and my sick, old dog that has been there ever since i can remember

worry for the soul of the only woman i ever willingly called Nana

and with that worry comes guilt

because Nana died last friday and i had

three weeks

to visit her after we found out about the cancer that had staged a coup over her body and won

but i didn't because i was busy

panic isn't a singular emotion, you see

it is a culmination of emotions 

whose only goal, only purpose 

is to tear down every happy memory

every shred of light i might have left in my heart

they take everything

and i cannot stop them.


so i sleep with the lights on,

even though i am eighteen years old and i should not need a damn nightlight,

but i do need one

because in the dark of the night it keeps the panic at bay

and for a few precious hours i can sleep

and i cry in the car,

overwhelmed with what-ifs and should-haves

 there is an storm gathering in my throat and behind my eyes and the only way out is through

so i cry 

and cry

and cry

and i write

i write because i do not want to be heard

i write because i cannot tell 


all the things in my head

because if i did,

if i did

they would force feed me as many anti-depressants as they could clutch in their sweaty palms

they would cry with me

they would tell me to think positive, after every storm comes a rainbow

so i don't tell them, 

i just write

and i hope that someday,


will hear 

someone will hear and they will say

i understand

and they won't tell me to think positive

and they won't cry with me

and they won't try to shove their way of coping down my throat

they will just say

i understand

and their eyes will be sad

and they will reminisce and 


for just a moment

the fingers like ice

ripping their lungs away from their body


the storm brewing in their chest

and they will know how to be kind

but not patronizing

i write because i do not know any one person 

that could do this right now

i write because i am trying to find 


to listen, to lighten my load, to defuse the bomb in my stomach





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