Seizure Bracelet

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

panic expired.

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.

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