It hurts to breathe.
Eyes press upon, when not one set is looking your way.
Passerby's seem closer,
as if every inch around you is to be bartered for.
To appear confidant, to act brave, that is my mission in life.
To polish up anxiety and sell it to the masses with a smile.
I seek a state of normalcy,
a condition so sought after it created its own word.
It is an illusion.
People are like dogs, they smell fear.
Those dogs mauled me in the past, I bear the scars.
Panic can be pushed down.
If only it would never surface, my charade could live on.
In a way it has, it rarely surfaces in public;
it is commonly exposed in private.
