Panic

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She lays,
her warm body shivering,
pressed along the lacquered wood.
She is the sixth finger.
Her mind reels, but thoughts
pass by too quickly to catch.

Her head is a vacuum.
She is grasping for air
but cannot take a deep enough breath:
“I need more lung”.
Every pore on her face,
the small of her back,
the back of her neck,
pulsates in a post-shock seizure.

“I need feeling”
for feeling is what lacks.
she aches for a slashed lick
to strike her and make her feel pain.
“at least I’d feel”.






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