I wait in the empty bathroom.
It is happening again.
My chest tightens,
suffocating my heart in the process.
I try to settle my breathing,
but it is not working.
Am I going to die here?
I could feel panic,
rise to my chest.
I could feel my hands,
beginning to sweat.
This feeling is killing me inside
and out.
I have learned ways for it to
go away.
I take the scissors from my bag,
and pull my sleeves.
I can't breathe.
I can't see.
I can't,
feel.
YOU ARE READING
In The Mind of Depression
PoetryA "book" full of poems, from a depressed child. These poems are just sincere words and do not (and will not) always make sense, so I antecedently apologize.