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I feel like I can’t breathe,
Like the sweetly angry butterflies in my stomach have turned into rage filled wasps.
My still body is in seizure mode,
And a hammer is about to softly beat through my chest.
The writing calms me down but the shakes,
And the cold heat has yet to recede.
I tell myself that all will be well soon enough but,
It’s easily harder to lie to yourself that others.
I have had so much practice by now I’m like a fake, real life Pinocchio except,
My nose sits on my face unmoving.
The more I write the more I feel.
I fell like myself again, with my temper growing short at the inconvenience.
I feel like clamps have been removed from wind pipes,
Forcing gallons of thick, unseen air back into my nervous body.
My hard, softened heart seems to be beating again,
Giving me relief.
I sit under the dark, florescent light while the A/C kick into high gear,
Filling the room with the impression of an airplane,