The words are aching to explode from my chest. Instead, they leak in invisible ink. I want to read them, but I can’t see them, even with glasses.

I write this while I sit on a full-sized bed in a small room with nearly thirty other beings. The only way I survive is focus, focus on other things. I am a master of focus. Focus. Focus. Focus.

But that focus can create this never-ending loop in my brain. An anxiety loop worsening until my bones are about to shatter from the shaking. More power than a jack hammer. More oscillation than a “back massager.” More danger than an earthquake.

I’M LIABLE TO EXPLODE!

… except quietly. Softly. No one will notice that my heart seized up in the frenzy. No one will notice as I fall to the ground.

I am as invisible as the words I cannot put to paper. I am a writer who cannot write. I am a poet who barely uses adverbs.

Even this is short, though I can feel the rhythm of those superfluous words in my chest. They waltz. They are beautiful, I am aware. But I can’t see them.