Coffee Culture

panic attack

phase one

a strand of hair tickles my cheek
as my fingers clench the plastic cup
casual chitter chatter muffled
with the flick of a switch
so that the pounding music
is replaced with my heartbeat

phase two

my eyes flicker downwards
landing on a pair of shaky hands
whose fingers curl and relax
when my brain asks politely

but those are not my hands
they may be attached to my body
but these are foreign digits
unable to be recognised
within my binary code

phase three

my chest begins to collapse inwards
unable to withstand the pressure
of these stimulations around me
pricking my skin and leaving scars
invisible to the naked eye

ragged breaths scrape my lungs
while my parted lips vacuum air
but only five percent oxygen
reaches my aching brain
which clings to consciousness
with nails that pierce the cliff edge
crumbling beneath my fingertips

phase four

swaying from left to right
steering an imaginary car
which has long since lost its driver

wondering when the vignette filter
will haze the edge of my vision
and whether my eyes will see
anything besides midnight
for the rest of eternity

phase five

fear seeps through the cracks
which my heart was trying to heal
poisoning blood vessels
sending my pulse racing
at a million miles per second
competing against itself
in a race no one signed up for

controlled by a puppeteer
who has released the strings
and sent my stomach plummeting

panic urges me to escape
but no one can hear these thoughts
dissipating before they leave my lips

switching to fight or flight mode
when my only opponent is myself

waiting for someone to rescue me
from the depths of the ocean
using only words of comfort
which skip across the surface
but never hit rock bottom
where my soul lies
weighed down by the anchor
of my catatonic mind

faint words reach my ears
from the other end of a tunnel
whose crackling signal sends me
fragments of information
a jigsaw puzzle with pieces
which the manufacturer
forgot to include

phase six

my mind taps through frequencies
brushing a hand across piano keys
struggling to hit the right note
which returns vivid colours
back to their rightful objects

waking up from a nightmare
conjured by my own anxieties
as my breathing evens out
adjusting to the pulse
of a metronome in adagio
and eventually to grave

blurred faces sharpen
traced with coloured pencils
doodles leaping out of a sketchbook
restored to three dimensions
the way they should be

my grip loosens on the
red solo cup whose plastic
snaps and crackles while
conversation blossoms
like a rose whose thorns
are only exposed to me.