Panic
By Ashley O’Hare
Panic.
Cold, numb panic.
Little me remains oblivious,
but my grown self welcomes it
like an old friend.
A friendship
with too much water under the bridge—
I’m drowning.
A friendship
with too many words left unsaid—
I’m breathless.
A friendship
with a habit of leaving me in the dark—
I’m scared.
But I have grown fond
of the squeezing in my throat;
like an internal hug.
Without it
I am lost.
Without it
I stand a chance at happiness.
I do not know what to do with that.