Catching my breath. 

Counting 1, 2, 3. 

Breathing in and out slowly,

trying to find its cadence once again like an old antique metronome.

My lungs are in desperation for oxygen, 

but my deadbeat brain won’t let any air circulate. 

With what is left of my energy,

I bury my body into the crease where the cinder blocks greet each other. 

The chill of the cold brick send goosebumps up my spine.

Like the way a chilling arctic breeze flows across a polar bear’s fur;

as chilling as the fear I feel now,

running up my spine as I realize,

everybody is staring.

I begin to suffocate.

The walls begin to close in on me as the fluorescent lights become brighter, 

and the room becomes quieter. 

The only thing I can feel on my back is the blank cinder

pushing back against my spine. Squeezing me tightly,

strangling me, and taking whats mine.

My breath is as unsynchronized as the sixth grade symphony.

It is trying to match the conductor in an awkward chase

while falling behind each beat,

still making an effort to match the counts with the tap of its foot

but it just can’t keep up.

My breath is still trapped inside my lungs. 

The human body should be able to do this one task on its own: 

Inhaling and exhaling.

By itself, non-voluntarily. 

But I am, Shaking and hyperventilating  

by myself, non-voluntarily.