Sting. A poem by Ciara Hayes

The buzzing of fears does not end.
Like a wasp in a bedroom, the noise invades.
It fills my ears my mouth my nose my face my brain
There is no escape from reminders stinging instead your own head.
As real as the feelings are
The heat that starts in my stomach and surges outward through me, crawling up my throat, rushing through my face
As real as the feelings are
The fear is created inside my own brain.

And that’s what I tell the wasp over and over
Who buzzes around my head with never ending stings, just waiting for a pause.
A moment.
A brief minute when it doesn’t hurt to breathe.


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