Don't Test Yourself

This game is trecherous, this tempting,
and I fall into a forgery of terror.
Bright, sharp in my chest, panic blossoms;
death looms before my eyes, oily and blakened.

I beg and crawl, clawing at the staples in my skin,
aching for an outlet for such ferocious fear.
Late night, alone, and another sleepless night.
The gasoline stains my fingertips, the memories...

Isolation gnaws once more, waves of anxiety
flowing across my skin, tears, agony, as my body
shakes out of mind, out of control.
My throat scratched and sore, I am suffocating.

Where is the steel, where is the savior?
The white knight to enact my metamorphasis
to well adjusted productive media darling?
It seems this time I must save myself.

Author notes

word bank numero uno.

in case you're wondering the title is a silly phrase i used to get over my panic attacks, which is what the poem is about. so see, they do go together!