Let's Have A Panic Attack!

I do relish these things,
in a manner of speaking.
When the cortisol spikes, I am
   a riot in F major
   a riff played over all six trembling strings
   a plasma ball sparking blurred in sunset colours
groundless, searching for that earthing fingertip
that soft, infinitely sweet stained-glass sapphire gaze
to bring me back to reality
      (oh, why go back there?!
      where this all began in the first place.
      catch-22, come back down
      only to be flung once again cloudwards
      by panic with teeth.)
but while the chemical swells,
poised to poison and kill
there is some secret part of me,
   somewhere, something
that collects the memory of each twitching nerve
 each frayed heartbeat echoing in a bone-cage
   each lip bitten to ruby slipperiness
      every single quavering fingertip
and keeps it
for poetry,
later.

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