Anxiety
True terror taps
on my bedroom window.
I know that I have
no choice
but for a while I
remain
under the covers,
the air becoming
more and more stale
as my breathes become
deeper. And quicker.
The tapping is music and
rhythmic and present and
all in time with the frantic
beating of my own heart.
Somehow, it is all I hear.
The shadow cast
on the soft sheets
that my mother chose
leaks ink
and stains the place
where I pretend to
sleep.
I feel my blood
collect at my feet,
as if a magnet were
willing it down
through my body
and arms,
and from my face
the color dwindled.
The tapping becomes
more forceful,
but the sound exists
only in my ears and nose
and the space around them.
I keep my eyes closed
and choke on invisible
sand as the darkness
slides across the floor,
up the bed and onto
my chest.
I cower under the sheets,
but the weight is unmistakable.
Unimaginable.
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