Tick. Tick. Tick
An incessant itch.
Little by little,
trickling into nothing
as space becomes past
tense and the present
becomes too much.

Tighter than a noose –
a noose is an end.
This is life, a long
reality tightening
around your throat,
grabbing hold just enough
to sultrily tease with the
cool, crisp, gentle respite of oxygen.

Feeling like you’ll make it but
praying that you’re wrong.
Nervous habits,
Constricted lungs,
A mind racing ’round a corpse
Whose heart is still beating
To escape its mortal cage.
Anxiety crushing every last
moment of me. Every last chance.


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