PANIC BUTTON
My panic button is always held
in the ON position.
That is to say,
my panic never has an off day.
My panic gets turned on
by the girl that wakes up
on the wrong side of my own bed.
Which is to say,
I am my own worst anxiety.
My panic button has a panic button.
I know this because
she pushes it every time
my breath catches in my throat.
Which is to say,
my panic button never catches a break.
My panic has hands.
I know this because
she wraps her sweaty fingers
around my neck
any time I think too much
or feel too much or am too much.
Which is to say,
my panic is tired.
I know this because
my panic stays up all night.
She counts racing heartbeats instead of sheep.
She screams instead of sleeps.
My panic has feet.
I know this because
my panic runs
at the first mention of therapy.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love my therapist,
but she sees right through me.
She knows…
My panic has friends.
I know this because
my panic never shows up to the party alone.
She brings with her
obsession and perfection,
and don’t forget dear old guilt and shame.
They get together to plot and plan;
They strategize my demise.
But my panic?
Not my panic…
My panic is kind.
I know this because
every time I get behind the wheel –
whether or not the threat is real –
my panic screams NO NO NO NO,
because I know what a woman burning alive looks like,
and my panic doesn’t want that to be me.
And my panic is hopeful.
I know that sounds paradoxical,
but I know this because
even when I, myself, can’t hold hope for the future
there’s my panic, always one step ahead,
worrying about the future.
That is to say,
my panic is sure
there will even be a future to worry about.
And some days, that’s hope enough.
But even so…
I’m not sure how long
my panic will find her home here.
That is to say,
my panic has worn out her welcome.
my panic button’s batteries
have lost their charge.
And I know this won’t be the last time
my panic shows up unannounced,
but for today
I think I’ll take
her kindness and her hope
as parting gifts
as I usher her out again.
