Panic Attack II.

It feels like death. Like you’re dying.
It punches through your chest, grabs your heart, and SQUEEZES.

It feels like a heart attack. Like a stroke.
You can’t breathe, can’t feel anything except
your light-headness and pounding heart.

You’ll wish you were dead.
That you could just lay down and die because then you could relax.
Then you wouldn’t be so nervous all the time. Then you could sleep.

It also drags up feelings you thought were gone.
The feelings that tell to slit your wrist.
Two big, long, red, vertical cuts to relieve the pressure.
The pressure that’s constantly raining down on you. Suffocating you.
An invisible pillow over your mouth.

You can’t think. Can’t sit still. Can’t concentrate. Can’t breathe.
It makes your hands shake. Your voice quaver.
Your head spin faster than a goddamn Tilt-A-Whirl.
It forces you to grab your hair in pure frustration and SCREAM.

MAKE ALL THIS FUCKING SHIT GO AWAY!!!!!!

Racing thoughts. Racing pulse. Racing thoughts. Racing pulse.

Stop. Think. Breathe. Fuck. Stop. Thinking. I. Can’t. Do. This.
Make. This. Paranoia. Stop.

Pace, pace, pace. Can’t do this anymore. Need a break.
Need a vacation from myself.
Need sleep. Need to relax. Can’t relax.

How-Do-I-Breathe-When-I-Can’t-Breathe?

Pick up the razor. Should I? I just need one cut. Just one. To bleed.
To release all that energy that’s pent up.
That’s racing inside of me. That’s driving me insane. One wouldn’t hurt.

Would it?

Iwishiwasinahospitalinastraightjacketinaroomwhereicouldjustscream
wherecrazypeoplecanbecrazyandi’llknowi’msafecausetheytakecareof
crazypeoplethereandiamfuckingcrazy.

Heart pounding against chest. Am I dying? God I hope so.
Can’t stand this anymore.
Need to breathe to relax. Need to just die for awhile.

I just want to die for awhile.