Sta.sh
They are watching me,
hollow eyes
and synthetic smirks
twist the muscles of their faces
as they stare from behind
their masks of flesh.
I won't look, I won't look.
I am drowning
on a city sidewalk,
choking on the acrid,
downtown air.
No one
can save me from myself.
I can't breathe, there's no air.
My skin is taut,
rubber over a bone frame,
and my guts are twisting
and burning
as they slither up my throat.
I can't move, I'm paralyzed.
The world is transforming,
red and green traffic lights
beam brighter
against the brilliant glow
of blazing yellow taxi cabs
in a blinding whirl of color.
I just need to get home.
Each step is heavy,
weighed down by an iron chest
caving like aluminum
beneath the weight
of an anchor that bangs the drum
so rapidly
ensnared by the constricting grip
of chain link ribs.
I think I'm losing my mind.
Every smile is a stab,
every glance a piercing stare
as time slows
and my body propels itself
toward the earth,
into the cold, wet concrete
and the blackness
of my own subconscious.
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I've come close to panic attacks, but I've never had one. My friends, though, have had plenty.
Well written. Honestly.