too

He cries too much, pays attention too much. Frosted tears adorn his cheeks, glimmering paths of transparent thorns prodding into his face as windows to his rosy cheeks. His eyes, heavy brown almonds set dozily under his gentle brow, shake beneath his tightly closed eyelids as his stubby fingers roughly dig into his face, flushed with a pink cloud of saudade. He desperately wipes at the tears, pleading with them to stop, to never have existed because "only babies cry."

The bathroom he sits in is too clean, all cotton linen and white surfaces. The aroma of lavender soap swirls through the air. It only makes him anxious to take it all in—the polished tile, pure white with no spontaneous curls of gray or red, the neatly placed purple soap bar sitting in small tray by the sink like it had never been used, like the room had never been used. Too much commercialism; superficial.

A flourishing garden of anxiety buds along his arms and legs, hairs awakening to prickle under the suffocating wool of his navy blue sweater. One knock at the laminate door and his breath is stopped painfully in his chest. Rods of panic bursting through his chest to shatter his ribs as they break along the rest of his body, replacing his bones with wooden sticks with strings attached for It to force him off of where he had been crouched on his knees to the door.

"Ju-Just a minute," salt coats his throat and mouth, making more bitter droplets tear from his eyelids as his tongue grazes the letters. His vision is tunneled when he looks up into the mirror, finding fluffy hair that would shine gloriously in the sun and yet is crippling under fluorescents, plump lips raw from his teeth worrying them, eyelashes glued together by nerves, a raw-red nose, and cheeks too pigmented to have been blushing.

The faucet spills ice cold water and he is all too eager to brace his trembling hands on the edge of the sink counter and push the right side of his face under the spout to calm the harrowing storm flowing from his eyes onto his face, dulling the rosiness on that cheek before switching to the other. Water slithers down his chin, kissing his parted lips that gasp out stuttered breaths, gathering in pools on the counter. He twists the faucet off, looks back up—dry dull eyes veined in red, skin painted with the pallor of nausea. Better.

He snatches a too soft white towel from the stainless ring nailed into the clean wall, patting his dripping face diligently and then looping it back through haphazardly. Lips stretch on their own accord, a conditioned movement after catharsis to restore a look of happiness to his artificially-brightened face. Perfect.

He breaths out one last, laborious breath as his hand envelops the cold doorknob, twisting and pushing in one swift motion. His legs stride into the hallway and towards the loud voices and the flowers are re-budding in his lungs, taking in his air and leaving his throat tightening to slow down his heightened heartbeat. No place to run now, sit down and enjoy the ride again. 

—wowza this was written in the midst of an anxiety attack and idk why it happened to be in 3rd person pov of a guy but okay. anyway, sozzle for just dropping this out of nowhere but hey, no one reads my shit and I never have anything planned so it doesn't really matter, does it?