swelling throat

as tight as my butthole

freezing perspiration

coating the back of my ears,

palms,

ankles,

wrists,

I can’t get a grip on this

with slimy hands

darting around like a

mad

man

searching for an alleyway

or seat away

from anyone

so that I can make an embarrassing

face

and purge

from my eyes

this great misunderstanding

of myself

as people occupy

every nook and cranny

chanting,

“We’ve got food!”

they looked better

than I thought they would

and me calling in sick

was not a gesture of protest

I’m not joining them,

it was an admission

to my boss

that I have a problem.

It’s like coming out

of the closet for me,

or finding a human head

in my backpack

“I’m having a panic attack

and if I go there,

I will punch a customer

and leave

and cry

and cry”

And in Seattle,

Autumn is Winter

and I want to kill myself again

until Spring is Winter

and my mind

or brain

or skull

or head

is scorching and scratching

its way out

and no-one is available

I am dying

requesting her

to exhale my last

foul

breath

teeth: brushed

cigarettes: smoked

this is a virus

and I’m glad

you all made it out

O.K.