A sestina about a panic attack
It is Dark When the Monsters Come
It is dark when the monsters come,
When breath grows short and tortured,
It is dark when the sirens cry
Their unearthly, ghostly song.
It is dark when the tears start,
Walking away from flashing lights.
They come under cold streetlights,
And at the door of the dorm they still come,
The tightness in her chest is about to start,
She wonders, is this what it feels like to be tortured?
The absence of the siren’s shrieking song
Becomes a silent mournful cry.
Fragments of the operator’s voice in her mind as she starts to cry,
Back in her room, shock-pale under fluorescent lights,
The part of her that cannot breathe can no longer hear a song.
Her friend, bearing chocolate, has come,
But that does not work, and her breathing is tortured.
She knows the name for this-has known it since the start.
She knew it would come, since she dialed her phone at the very start,
And because she cannot stop it, she cries.
Because she knows it and cannot stop it, is that not a form of torture?
It is dark when the monsters come-not banished by the lights,
They are not afraid of the bright lights, it is dark within her mind, and so they come,
They sing and shriek, a terrible conglomeration of a doubting song.
She writes to stop it, a broken, creaking song,
It is still dark when the end starts.
She dreams of winter cold when the monsters come,
An icy shell to protect her, but still she cries
Because no one else sees the darkness under fluorescent lights.
Her page is full of twisted words, fear tortured.
She knows, and that knowledge is a torture,
When the words don’t come anymore because it is a broken song.
She learns fear and pain and grief-emotions never meant to be seen in light,
And that is when the changing starts.
She has her words; she does not need to cry,
But it is dark when the monsters come.
It is dark when the monsters come,
When the words are not enough and all she has is a meaningless cry,
And it is dark when the cold hand around her heart, squeezing tightly, starts.
It is dark when the monsters come,
When breath grows short and tortured,
It is dark when the sirens cry
Their unearthly, ghostly song.
It is dark when the tears start,
Walking away from flashing lights.
They come under cold streetlights,
And at the door of the dorm they still come,
The tightness in her chest is about to start,
She wonders, is this what it feels like to be tortured?
The absence of the siren’s shrieking song
Becomes a silent mournful cry.
Fragments of the operator’s voice in her mind as she starts to cry,
Back in her room, shock-pale under fluorescent lights,
The part of her that cannot breathe can no longer hear a song.
Her friend, bearing chocolate, has come,
But that does not work, and her breathing is tortured.
She knows the name for this-has known it since the start.
She knew it would come, since she dialed her phone at the very start,
And because she cannot stop it, she cries.
Because she knows it and cannot stop it, is that not a form of torture?
It is dark when the monsters come-not banished by the lights,
They are not afraid of the bright lights, it is dark within her mind, and so they come,
They sing and shriek, a terrible conglomeration of a doubting song.
She writes to stop it, a broken, creaking song,
It is still dark when the end starts.
She dreams of winter cold when the monsters come,
An icy shell to protect her, but still she cries
Because no one else sees the darkness under fluorescent lights.
Her page is full of twisted words, fear tortured.
She knows, and that knowledge is a torture,
When the words don’t come anymore because it is a broken song.
She learns fear and pain and grief-emotions never meant to be seen in light,
And that is when the changing starts.
She has her words; she does not need to cry,
But it is dark when the monsters come.
It is dark when the monsters come,
When the words are not enough and all she has is a meaningless cry,
And it is dark when the cold hand around her heart, squeezing tightly, starts.