Stop.
1-2-3-breathe.
You tell yourself this every night
In an attempt to calm yourself
Keep your mind and soul from shattering
All over the bathroom floor
Stop.
1-2-3-breathe.
You tell yourself this as your eyes dart to dark corners
Searching, waiting
You try to separate imagination from reality
As you imagine the worst
The impossible
The improbable
Stop.
1-2-3-breathe.
You tell yourself this as you sit in the corner
Watching all windows and doors
Trying to convince yourself
That the shadow around the corner is just the bookcase
And not something much worse-
Stop.
1-2-3-breathe.
You tell yourself this as a man creeps around the corner.
You can’t see his face, but you know you’ve seen him
Somewhere before.
He stares into your soul with sinister eyes,
And suddenly the breathing stops working.
Stop.
1-2-3-breathe.
You tell yourself this as you pray silently to whoever will listen
Because, for the love of God, don’t be real.
But, for the love of God, don’t let me go insane.
For the love of God, stop playing with my head-
Stop.
1-2-3-breathe.
You tell yourself this as you hold up your hand, your arm,
Shielding your face from an attack that will never come.
You can feel your pulse thumping in your trembling fingertips
As you push your other hand into the wall behind you,
In hopes that it will finally ground you.
Stop.
1-2-3-breathe.
You tell yourself this as you jump,
Hear the door
Clicking, creaking open.
You know that the mind plays tricks,
And so, you sit.
Wide eyed.
Unmoving.
And close to splintering.
“Hey, honey. Whatcha doin’?”
“Nothing, Mom. Just thinking.”