Wednesday, November 12, 2014
It starts as nothing, a little paper-thin pull right under the breast
bone, too far in to itch. I try to breath it out of me, blow it away
with the gusting of my forceful lungs, but it spirals. It grows,
feeds off my air and turns it against me. Perpetuated by my
effort, it plugs my throat and twists up to my eyes. My
lungs are capped, screwed shut. There is not enough air
in this room, building, block, town, state, country
for me to gulp down. It turns into sublime weather
raging inside my chest, ripping apart the town of safety
and security I have built upon the surface of my diaphragm.
My safe cars are thrown back, my calm roofs are torn up,
my secure stairs are left dangling. Destruction
coming from nothing. My funnel of fear is made
of paper-thin worry and built-up breath.
And even after the storm’s wake is