Just a Little Dust

My head is spinning.

I’ve been doing so well — holding it all together —
But the baggage always finds me when I least expect it.

My vision blurs.
My hearing fractures.
Voices stretch into static,
blend into electric.
Everything buzzes — too much, too close.

I can’t breathe. No air. No space.
My lungs feel like paper, crushed in someone’s hand.
Dark clouds roll across my mind, swallowing the light.

It’s like something cracked inside.
Like the ceiling caved in and I’m still pretending it’s just a little dust.
Like I’m holding up the walls with trembling hands.

My insides twist.
Are organs supposed to move like this?

There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach —
not tied, but turning.
Curling in on itself. Growing.
I double over. Holding myself.
Back and forth, back and forth — rocking-like motion will fix it.

How long has it been?
Minutes? Hours?
Time folds in on itself — like my breath, like my body.

Lights are too bright — even behind my eyelids.
Every sound scratches.
My skin itches from the inside out.

I’m not here. Not really.
I’m floating a few inches above myself —
watching a stranger fall apart in my skin.

When does it end?
What even triggered this?
What do I do?

What if this is permanent?
What if this is who I am now?
A body in freefall. A brain on fire.

I should be fine.
Everyone else handles this.
Why can’t I just stay okay?
Maybe I’m broken — maybe I’ve always been.

I know it will pass.
I’ve survived this before.
But logic doesn’t reach the place where the storm lives.

I want silence. Stillness.
I want to crawl out of my body,
or press a reset button.

Inhale.
It shakes. But it happens.
Exhale.
Not peace. But a pause. Just a moment where nothing moves.

Like the ceiling caved in and I’m still pretending it’s just a little dust.