Sometimes the panic turns,
spinning into accomplishment and excitement and worth.
Sometimes it does not.
Sometimes, today is a dead weight to be endured,
a time of darkness, tied in back of a van, as streetlights race in mocking lines across the filthy carpet, moving without will, without hope, under another’s impetus.
Sometimes it, it’s pitch black closets after the giggles were forced away, duct tape peeling painful free from skin.
Waiting. Laughter turns to terrified coals in my chest, impossible to express.
This will be a funny story later.
Black eyes become jokes and unsubtle warnings.
Love and safety only flow through very narrow lanes.
Both are lies.
Both are truths, poorly considered.
It just takes time. Finite terrible time.
Sometimes panic turns to memory to terror to breathless present.
Forgetting that this is not for always.
Not for always.
A wink of a blink in a cosmic sneeze.
What else would there be?