lockjaw

the throat’s a dead end

on the good days,
the walls breathe only a little.
not enough to worry about.

the air thickens sometimes,
not choking me,
just syrup down my lungs.
like it wants me slower.

the floor pulses.
i pretend it doesn’t.
if i stare too long,
the lines in the tile crawl.

sometimes the eyes prickle.
a salt sting, like a warning.
the throat closes halfway,
but the signal gets lost.

on the good days,
the nausea fades by afternoon.
the shaking stays,
but quiet.
like a held breath.
like a dog trained not to bark.

i count cracks in the ceiling
like they might split open,
cackling as they crumble
into my eyes, down my throat,
concrete where it matters most.

on the good days,
i only lose a few hours.
the gaps are small.
easy to step over,
like puddles instead of pits.

my fingers twitch on their own.
not dramatic,
just the way a wire flickers
before something shorts out.
tightness behind the eyes,
like the spark might travel upward,
but it fizzles out.

on the good days,
the jaw only locks once or twice.
i barely notice the clench
until it hurts.
the pressure climbs my face,
settles under the cheekbones.
something rising,
then forgetting how.

the room bends sometimes,
but not enough to fall.
my face loses its shape in the mirror,
but i let it.

i can hold conversations
if they stay shallow.
no one notices
how far away i am.
that’s the trick of the good days—
i blend in so well
I bleed through the edges of their perspectives.

breathing is work.
so is blinking.
i remember my name
on the second try.

I’m the girl who can’t cry

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