im on the overground at rush hour and i want to scream

I feel like my heart is screaming, like there is a hand around its throat, squeezing, a hard pressure

There is no stillness

No calm

Even though I am calling for it

The more desperate I am the farther away it gets, taunting

Pushing and pulling, tugging the sleeve of the adult begging for a break

But all I get is a sharp look - quiet

It is far too much to ask, out of my place

i make myself smaller, take up less space,

less air (i don't try to, i succeed) 

discomfort is unwelcome, put it away

folded small, tucked away under doubts and sense of self

smile, passive, survive, thrive!

why aren't you happy?

you catch yourself sometimes, not breathing

you have to remind yourself

convince yourself

to stop

take the sword out of your mouth

force the air down your stomach

it gets set like that, fresh concrete left to dry out in a mould, rigid, immovable. 

might crack if you hit too hard.

so its got to be gentle

coaxing

not a slash but a slow slide in

only as much as accepted

which initially is nothing: the grate stops entry but it also stops the exit of anything worse that might come up

acid, bubbling, tears, salty

a shadow, all consuming

moth wings and spider webs and nails bent out of shape and the lightness and heaviness of knowing its all in your head 

and it stands in front of you as you blow at it 

as if that will be enough to defeat it (it has three blades and brass knuckles and a long reach)

often it isn't

(and it hurts)

but sometimes it is

if only for the 4 count

and then the 6 count

and then the 8