Poetry: Blossoming River

Attack

It always creeps up on you.

Never truly a surprise, but never something you want to accept.

You fight it as much as possible, but can you ever really beat it down?

With each passing breath, its hold on you is that much stronger.

The chills that rush through you — sweet paralysis.

The numbing, for me, comes first.

Then there's the roaring silence; I try to fight the dizziness that accompanies it.

The thundering soon follows — the strange upbeat staccato of the heart.

I try as much as possible to internalize it.

No need to make a scene.

There is a pause, followed by a shortness of breath.

I try to think — futile.

Void.

Nothing but white noise and the clenching of my heart.

Soft gasps for air while trying to remain calm.

Don't make a scene.

Heart, don't be so loud.

I wait for the searing grasp to loosen.

Release.

Eyes scanning the room.

Bright faces, no worries.

Can they not see?

Are they unaware?

Such oblivious faces.

What would be like to be a bright face?

At last the sweet inhale – like ambrosia.

Ebbing.

The tendrils slink away.

I've made it through another.

Maybe it won't be so bad anymore.

Blissful hope.