My rib cage struggles to contain
The tornado of butterflies
That thud off the glass of my chest
Like a bird on a freshly cleaned window

They then take a sharp turn, in synchronicity
Like a flock of starlings over an open field
And dive into my stomach,
Pulling up just before they hit the bottom

I reach into my head in hopes of salvation
But what once rested between my ears is gone,
Leaving only a post-it note that reads
“be back soon, went to market”

Each breath that leaves my body is on fire
And my legs get heavier with each step
My vision is blurred, my voice is small
And I am not a man, and I am not a human, but I am a feeling

Panic