There’s A Little Bird Living In My Chest

I can feel it sitting there, flapping it’s wings and trying to find the way out.

I keep buying yoghurts I don’t eat.

I sit at my desk with a tennis ball wedged behind my shoulder, an ineffective attempt to loosen the pinched nerve that has turned one half of my back numb and sends cold shivers shooting down my arm.

I had a dream. He was sending me messages with other girls CC’ed in on it. Girls he was flirting with, he told me.

I didn’t like that.

I didn’t like it even more when I woke up.

Perhaps I’ll ask him on a date.

That’s a bad idea. Is it? Fuck. I don’t know anymore.

I had a panic attack on Saturday. The first one I’ve had in about a year. Almost to the day, actually. I remember because last time I was in my car and I was going to a friend’s birthday and it’s her birthday again this Friday.

This time I was at the the Tens and it’s a massive party. Claire grabbed my hand and started pulling me into the beer tent and there was noise, just a roar of noise, and hundreds of people and the air was sweaty and soaked in beer.

And I couldn’t breathe.

I used my elbows to shove my way out.

I can’t explain it. It sits in my chest, like a little bird trying to escape. Frantically flapping it’s wings. For a while I thought I had a heart condition, until the doctor told me no. My heart was fine.

Just anxiety.


Perhaps I shall name the little bird.

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