Feelings On Paper

That Voice

It's that moment in which your breath hitches,
a pressure on your chest settles,
and it becomes hard to breathe.

You take a breath in and out,
and still feel fatigue.

Your fingertips run cold,
a sort of numbness going through your entire body.

Then,
just when you thought you could handle it,
the panic settles.

It makes your heartbeat quicken,
as if you were running from something,
yet you can't pinpoint the danger as you begin to feel exhausted.

Breathing in and out in and out in and out—
clenching your fists to feel your fingers again, digging your nails through your palms to feel your skin again, bouncing your leg to distract you from the sound of your own heartbeat—that damn mortality—desperate to know where the tears are coming from—breathing in and out in and out in and out—

"All it takes is that sharpness to let you feel again," says the voice in the back of your head.

It chants over and over and over again:
"Do it."

But you refuse to listen so you scream into the abyss,
scratching at your arms,
wanting to get rid of that disgusting feeling the voice leaves behind.

And then that voice finally quiets down to a halt,
when the chanting finally stops,
you've let the tears stain your face,
you've let your hands mark your skin,
and the numbness still lingers through those shaky breaths.

Once the panic has subsided,
and you can finally breathe again without the pressure on your chest,
the only thing you can be glad of,
is that it's over now.

At least you didn't give in to that voice.