Panic (by Dixon Sprock)

Once you see panic, you become it.
Breathing. Something so simple
becomes so hard. Your heart pounds,
your body shakes, and death feels
tangible. You sit,
legs and arms distorted. Robot-like.
It’s like when your mother tells
you she’s leaving. Her face as long as day.
The skin on her hands pulled tight
across her bones. Her body weight
pushed against the side of the doorway
while a smirk creeps up her cheek,
as if to mock you.
And you feel your hands, stiff like
cold metal, your tears patient.
Once you see panic, you become it.