The mountain in the chest

It is the moving of a mountain in the chest,

the falter of the heartbeat

a hover in the throat

an interrupting static,

a frozen darkness.

The calling out,
the calling out

on abandoned roads
at crossroads not marked on the map,

the senselessness
of it all.

Journeying between peaks,
unable to look down

To just be able to breathe again
To eat again
To see again
To feel again.

Briefly, the small mercies;

the moments of acceptance
the embrace of patience
the temporary relief.

The safety.

But it takes just a small stone
to trip,

Unexpectedly, while buying fruit,
while watching a film, writing a line,
razors in the grass.

When will it end?

The breathlessness,
the onset of panic,
restless bodies in a graveyard,
the constant muttering,
the whispering,
the affirmations,

the sweat-stained fear,
a constant battle to wrest yourself out
from the quickest quicksand.

Eyes open in the dark,

Hands out reaching,
finding nothing,
taking anything.

When will relief come?
When will relief come?
When will relief come?

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