When people say, "let me know how I can help,"
I always smile and nod.
It's sweet of them, and kind, but on the inside my heart

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Later than night, when I'm curled under my desk,
hands over my ears
and the smothering weight of panic squeezes me, crushes me,
that sentence echoes.
"How can I help?"
I don't know.
I don't know.
Can you help?
Can I be helped?
I sit and ride it out, and my phone stays on the table.

The next day they ask, "are you doing better?"
I reach for my pen and scratch a smile onto my face.
Much better. Thank you for asking.
My insides are empty.