A crisp spring afternoon,
curled face down on the kitchen floor
oxygen struggling to exit ribcage,
remind yourself to breathe,
to perform.

Find your phone,
tell him you think about killing yourself
a lot.
He tells you he has a weekend to plan.

I still think about how wrong it is
to expect language to work like TV.
To exist as something you have to see.

The more literal you are,
the more metaphorical people will think you are being.

When the identity of another
depends on an extension
of your own invisibility,
every minute is spent
catastrophizing. Counting the steps to an exit.
Knowing to find quiet and dark
when breaths begin to quicken,
but before vision goes cloudy clear.

The order of this sequence is subtle
but profound.

Involuntary entering of fight-
or-flight mode indicates
some type of trauma. An
inability to talk yourself down
from ledges placed beneath you,
independent of will.

Lungs, larynx,
and tongue corrode,
claiming aphonia as sanctuary.
While a darkened frame lies atop you,
as if you were everything.
But not to him.