Panic is a button that sometimes gets pressed.
Never on purpose. Wouldn’t it be better if it didn’t exist?
Panic sends alarms that radiate through my skin.
Why are my hands sweating? Why is my brain fuzzy?
Can we remember the last time we panicked?
I always can.
I breathe in deeply and refocus,
the lines are still unclear, but life is always unclear
and I think, that this is okay.
I cannot decipher the words that pushed the button that set off the alarms
that necessitated the breathing (see the process is so clean, so simple).
I usually can’t, because then I would know what not to think to send me over the edge.
Breathing is a lot easier than thinking so I pretend that my brain doesn’t exist
until the alarms subside and my hands become my own.
I need these hands, I need this heart,
I need this brain and I need to focus.