Phobic

It sits somewhere between fear of open spaces and generalised anxiety.

My

Fear

Is

Blind;

I can’t help but

Suffocate.

One step

Each step

A struggle.

I walk

Down

Long

High streets:

Sweat pours from my fingertips.

Too much

Too soon

Alone in desolation.

Slippery thoughts

And a drum

In my heart.

What I see

Is what I feel:

Oppression.

The bitter taste of black

Coffee

The acrid grey of nicotine

Pinched

Skin

To

Feel alive

Under the

Stripped lights

So sore

Too

Bright

Too much

Too soon-cold isolation

Shaky limbs

And very little else

It’s like fainting

On

Spiky hills.

With my nails

I incrust

In

My

Flesh, reality.

In my thoughts

I infuse

Proper thinking.

It must be

Forceful

Extract myself from

Myself

Too much

Too soon-numb desolation.

Rooms are too square

Windows too far

Too little air

Can’t breathe

I

Can’t

Swallow

I know

I know

I’m so spiralled

In my own head

I need to stop and count to ten

And disconnect my restless mind

Replace each broken thoughts and fight.

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