so it's not that you can't breathe
because you can
it's just that the surrounding air doesn't work anymore
doesn't send you reeling from the sensation of being alive
doesn't fill you, doesn't clear your head

so you can breathe, you just don't
because it doesn't seem to make much of a difference
your lungs filling with useless stuff that almost makes you even more light-headed

the sound around you is muted, near-silent through the pounding of blood through your ears, your veins, slowing, stopping, speeding, and then slowing again.

light crawling toward you
as though streaming through water to reach your immobile body
you can see it shifting, moving, waving in front of you, and it doesn't help that your pulse is gone, searing your eyes and throat with the awful vividity of it all

it doesn't take long for it to overwhelm you
light too bright against your eyes that can't focus
sounds too loud and thick against your skull
blood pounding and not pounding in a quick succession that makes you question the veracity of what you can hear
it doesn't take long to overwhelm you
you, the stranger in unfamiliar coffee shops days in a row
the stranger switching from hospital to hospital
hotel to hotel
you, the stranger, sitting rigid in the comfortable train seats, leaving one town, and approaching another so similar
that you have lost the ability to tell the difference

it doesn't take long to overwhelm you, but when it does, everything slows to a deafening stop
dragging out the infinity and making you wait
you've always hated waiting.

The lights in the auditorium don't turn off
you know this because you can see them in your head
constantly
flickering slightly and keeping you awake

bright lights that blind you
make you sick and create the hopeless feeling that just doesn't go away
that settles over you and
crushes your lungs

it could be years
but you don't know
all you can see is the bright lights of the auditorium
as the blood drips down your face and onto your shirt

as the blood seeps into your clothing, plastering itself to your skin
as the heartbeat in your ears slowly turns into the only thing you can hear
as your eyes glaze over and you fall to the linoleum floor
unable to breathe

so it's not that you're dying
i mean,
you are
you are, but you're already dead

the lights in the auditorium are blinding you
and you can't move
and you can't speak
and sooner or later, the whole world turns down

turns down the sound from the outside
and the lights that seeped into your eyes
past useless eyelids
so that's it

so it's not that you can't think
you can
it's just that you can't think clearly about anything that matters

it's cold, all the time
you notice this
the numb hands and the
constant shivering

so it doesn't get any better
because you're just as scared
and it still hurts
but you keep hoping
'cause they said
they *promised

it's not as neat as you'd hoped it would be
not as clinical

when you left the hospital, they'd told you that it would be difficult

you hadn't believed them

but now, as you stand under the harsh spray of the shower
under water that's been cold for an hour now
you believe them

you'd felt like you'd been choking
air thick with steam and
some form of unhappiness that just won't go away
so you were choking
but you wouldn't leave
eyes shut tight against what you hoped wasn't there
leaning against the white tiles lining the wall
barely breathing
but now
as the ice-cold water hits your face and chest
you're not breathing at all

it's too painful, you'd told them
but they hadn't listened

the crushing weight of this anxiety
that you can't get rid of
keeps you from turning off the shower and stepping out

it ends with you shivering against the floor
rigid from the cold
but at least you can't think anymore
at least you can't think

so you're walking down the cracked paved road
lips numb and huffs of breath escaping through your nose
your hands are in the pockets of a large yellow hoodie with bloodstains down the sides, clutching at a crumpled ten dollar bill and shaking

so you're walking down a road
but you don't know where you're going
the feeling of not here so abstract
that you can't help but laugh at yourself for thinking that this would actually work

you know how other people see you
a small boy with a baggy sweatshirt and a mouth that tastes like coffee and cigarettes
it seems, recently, that everyone knows exactly what you taste like,
mouths pressed to yours in an effort to make the minutes stop
so you let them
because you're running out of time
and you figure that you should take what you can get

but sometimes, you're noticed,
even the feeling of a body pressed to yours, blood singing in between the ***** sheets of cheap hotels
even the thrill of easy *** cannot diminish the feeling
of a crushing weight upon your tired shoulders

your world is ending
and you know this
and you're having a hard time carrying on

you don't notice the pitying looks until it's 9 in the morning and you're halfway done with your third cup of gas station coffee
you barely even notice it then

so you're dragging your feet across the pavement, eyes mostly shut, carrying a briefcase in your left hand and a scalding cup of caffeine powder + water in your right
it's not that you're tired
you manage to get a good four hours most nights
it's that you cannot focus
everything around you is more than a little blurry
red edges on your vision and shadows somehow pixelated

you're stumbling across the street when you realize that somewhere along the way
you managed to finish that third cup
and your hand is uselessly gripping empty air
it falls to your side
and it takes a few steadying breaths to deal with the headrush that always accompanies such a revelation

you have an agreement
but you don't know who with
it's someone you met years ago
in a hospital
eyes bright and idealistic

you don't remember the agreement either
but it was something important
and you remember that

that's what matters, isn't it?

there is someone on the other side of that camera
watching you
and if they can read your body language
(bottom lip in mouth, hands ******* an oversized shirt)
then they can also read everything else
(hair twisted and knotted around itself, tie hanging haphazardly off your neck as you clutch at the pack of cigarettes in your pocket)

you have a hard time hiding these things

it's not that you hadn't enjoyed it, per say
trading ******* in the men's bathroom
back pressed flush against the grimy stall
it's just that you had somehow imagined *** with the man you loved
to be a little more...
glamorous

at night, with the light off, lying next to a warm body
hands that are trying to get into your boxers
you don't push him away
because even though you want to
he's your lover
and you feel like you're supposed to let him
so you do
and when you go to work the next day,
neck and collarbones lined with bruises,
you try to tell yourself
that you enjoyed it

you fail at that

when your co-workers ask you what's wrong
you shrug them off, and tell yourself that you should be blushing
when they congratulate you on finally getting some

it's not that you don't like it, you tell yourself
as you **** him off in the shower at 7 in the morning
it's just that you're too tired to appreciate what's going on