My right hand shifted to my left wrist
confident my bracelet was still there.
The silver chilled to the touch
of the soft palette of my fingertips.
My steps fell dense on the sidewalk,
bustling by masked faces and replaceable people;
my deep-sea eyes parallel to the ground,
my feet in constant forward motion.
The sun kissed my scalp,
a mild warmth spread throughout my body.
Pseudo happy voices spawned vacant noise,
my senses heightening to remark the distinct fabrication of the environment.
My backpack weighed me down the farther I got from my origin,
the closer I got to my destination;
the white back of the pack became a painted cobalt
from the constant rubbing of my blue jeans from every step, both left and right.
My left hand shifted to my right wrist
there was no silver chill.
Panic consumed me,
I nested, locked in my tracks,
the world around me faded
as my anxiety spoke to me, count to ten.
My vision resisted automatic parrallism
as they dropped to examine the bracelet that read,
“Social Anxiety Disorder – Prone to Seizures.”
My eyes swiftly closed,
hired by my fear.
I deviated my right hand to my left wrist and
The bracelet snitched on me,
revealing my secrets to neighboring strangers.
Count to ten.
One – two – three – four – five – six – seven – eight – nine – ten.
Count down to one.