I can't see fast enough to catch the light.
Over and over, the blur escapes focus.
The air is viscous, visceral.  Heavy water presses on me,
weighs on my lungs.
If only I could figure out which wall is the ceiling, I think I'd be OK,
but I can't move my head.
It's tethered.  To a bench,
or a table, or the floor -
the straps at my forehead and chin ratcheted,
ratcheted down leaving me no choice.

No choice.

I have to open my eyes and face what's in front of me,
or close them and face what's inside my head.