What Was Left Behind ✳️

The Bathroom

08/02/18 - Thursday

The bathroom is my sacred place.
No one enters your small space.
And you can lock your stall if you want privacy.

The tiles floors chill my skin through my jeans.
My knees hit my chest.
And my labored breaths echo off the walls.

Warm tears remind me that I'm alive.
The shaking getting to bad that my knees knock vertically into the porcelain toilet next to me.
I'm squished.

Squished but no crowed.
Remaining in crowded by the groups of people outside.
Uncrowded by the searing hot hands of anxiety.
Only remaining crowded by dark clouds.
The clouds infesting my mind one raindrop at a time.

Spilling evil in my head and letting the good out my body in the form of tears.

My knee is bruised now.
The tile floors unchanging as I stare
Tears blur my vision, and my cries continue to echo.

But they don't sound the same.

They're different.
Different in desperation.
Different in pace.

Jagged breathing and wheezing quickly take over.

I'm dizzy.
My head hurts.

Someone manages to unlock my stall.

The nurse takes me out of the bathroom.
Ripping me away from my sacred place. 

I want to go back.

I want to curl up and feel only the clouds again.
I want to remain untouched.
To remain... nearly numb.

If I stayed in longer, I would be numb.

That's a reason the bathroom is my sacred place.

Eventually, you tune it out.
You tube everything out.

Even yourself.

Take me back to my sacred place.
I can't breathe out here.
All I can do is panic.