Not Butterflies

The birds of prey came first
Tiny pterodactyls targeting my stomach
throughout the inky velvet night
echoing the familiar rush of water
smashing against rocks
as the tide comes in.

Soon, it's a heavyweight championship
beat down
as dreams spin into nightmares
that penetrate my skull
and crash.

Disoriented, I try to find
higher ground,
But a chill runs down
each of my vertebra
as goose bumps pop up on
the back of my neck.

Silently, they scream
in decibels
usually reserved for airplanes
and rock bands,
but no one hears what
makes no sound
and the seconds drag on,
becoming minutes
that time forgot.

An ache, soft as velvet
and just as dark
Slips past my walls
And settles in my lungs,
Where breathing has become
a race to the death
Lungs frantically moving air

in
and
out
in
and
out

at racing speeds
that leave no chance for breath
to be caught.

I am alone.

No surrender, no retreat.

No mercy to be found.

Just hundreds of tiny pterodactyls
colliding in my stomach.


NOTE: I wrote this after a panic attack during therapy. My therapist asked if panic attacks felt like extreme cases of butterflies in my stomach. I told her it felt more like pterodactyls than butterflies.. and a poem was born.