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Francesco Cavallini via Unsplash

Content warning: panic attacks, anxiety

 

My doona weighs me down unevenly, the internal blanket bunched and crumpled – no longer fitting perfectly into the doona cover corners. I lie on my back. Visual static. Grainy roof and walls. My room shifts to the left, then snaps back centred.

shifted left

centred

shifted left

centred

shifted left

centred 

My bed sways in a sea of unvacuumed carpet, and my body rocks with every accelerated heartbeat. Breathing exercises that never work. Close my eyes and count to ten. 

Breathe in 

    Two 

Breathe out 

Fuck. 

My burning lungs turn into a chugging train with broken brakes. Exorcise my breathing. I fantasise a cold, gentle hand reaching into my chest and holding my heart – squeezing it until it slows. Still. The night scene outside my window is calm and quiet.

 

The world is ending.

 

Tags : Mental healthPoetry
Sarah Jane Hurst

The author Sarah Jane Hurst

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