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EpilepsyInhale.More Like This
Exhale.
Count to ten.
-Count again.
Slow your pulse.
Slow your mind.
Steady hands
-Just in time.
You can feel my anxiety
When you walk through the door.
Air thick as butter,
You find me on the floor.
Electrical shock
From my head to my toes.
Pulsing,
Convulsing,
My heartbeat slows
Pale as death,
I'm coming to.
Counting ceiling tiles -haven't a clue-
Twenty down, ten across
Adorned with roses, garden moss.
My mother's eyes find mine,
But her voice is far away.
I imagine her as a ventriloquist dummy
-deserted by her master's voice.
I'd run to her, if I could
Sta.sh
