During a Panic Attack: a Failed Ode in Ten Parts


By Megan Hoins

i.

you keep the stitches
holding my skin together
from splitting
apart

ii.

my bare foot stepped
over the threshold
toes curling
and the ground came crashing
to meet my chest

iii.

how is it possible
for the boulder of my heart
to grow
like a weed
for it to ooze
sludge pulsing
with every twitch
of my nails

iiii.

there is no logic
in the drizzle
of my eyes upon
my knees

iiiii.

the romans
would say im wrong

iiiiii.

tell me
is yearning for the carpet
stiff and speckled
with salt
broken nails
skin and blood
to wrap around me
crack my spine
open like an egg on tile
and drag me
silent
under

is that wanting
to die

iiiiiii.

i
is the single
worst letter
to begin
an apology
with

iiiiiiii.

you were
are
were
are
too good for me
knuckles soft
on my door

shouldnt i have let you in?

‘look
i brought you fries’
the corner
of your mouth says

my nose
leaked blood
begging your forgiveness

iiiiiiiii.

god
im sorry
as if the extra m
makes it
any better

iiiiiiiiii.

this isnt
for me
certainly
not for you
or us

‘for’
is a guess
best left
to those who know better

i.

you hold the needle
between thumb
and forefinger
stitches threaded
between your bones

‘what now’
you whisper

my response
in a hush

‘pull’
 
 
 
 
Megan Hoins has been a writer since she started tracing the names of authors on books at the ripe young age of four. She’s been publishing essays on memes, Internet discourse, and her own life for a much shorter time on Medium, and she was recently published in Furrow Magazine, Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal, and Willard and Maple. Megan was also once the editor-in-charge-of-something-or-other for Ursus. Lately, she spends her days playing bagpipes, failing miserably at video games, and eating chocolate and spaghetti (but not at the same time).