Waiting for the Next Seizure

The tension,

a current,

runs through us.

We inhale it, ingest it,

until it becomes part of us.

We rarely exhale.

Our lives are sharp intakes of air,

knotted stomachs and quaking hands

that we stick in pockets

to try to hide or keep still.

We jump at small sounds,

our hearts racing

from no apparent outward cause.

Our eyes are wide,

waiting…waiting.

When finally we do exhale

it’s because we’ve just remembered to

and the air leaves us in

jagged little bursts.

Leaving a cavity,

only momentarily,

until the cycle begins again.