What’s help for if we’re not allowed to ask for it?
The disquiet head turns and eye shifts
Of people who have never felt
Have never endured
The anxiety of short breaths and wide eye whites
Wanting to sob and stuttering on silence
– shunning non-believers.
Did they know muscles choke?
They try to sink the lungs into giving them no oxygen, no relief,
When every new breath is a fresh
Batch of sewer water clogging throats.
What to do with these torments,
Better hidden still than cuts
On wrists (those cries for help),
The ones that show only in the rifts
Of a discarded soul, a stepped self,
An undervalued confidence.
Help? I cried my cry for help,
And was rewarded with one very
Awkward
Silence.