Life has become a state of constant sensory overload.
My nails scratch at the wooden tabletop—trying to ground myself
As I’m seated tightly, closed in, arms wrapped around me,
Chair’s legs touching the table’s.
A loud buzz surrounds me as the baristas take turns
Attempting to quell the thirst of the patrons during the high
Tide that is 9 am.
Yelling—screaming from my right
As Karen complains yet again, ducks in toe;
To my left, a window: buzzing
With people, it’s tourist season.
The sunlight creeps in, glaring at me
(Fuck vitamin D)
I wish there were blinds.
A text pops in and I look down at my screens—all three
Blaring with notifs
Youtube, email—gotta contact her today;
Instagram, Text message—“We should meet up soon”.
I shut my laptop and push
All my screens in my bag
My head buzzes with a soft hum,
Everything else muffled.
But all I can hear is the yelling, screaming—Karen please.
And the scratching of my nail—to ground me.
I crave the womb—quietly floating in a realm of encased calm and isolation.
But nothing will shut or stop or pause
For a moment so I hang my head and count to ten
Put me back together again.
Life is like becoming a newborn—a sudden sense of overwhelming noise,
colours, smells, gravity—it’s no wonder babies cry when they’re born.
I would too—(I do too)
Cause all I have are the colours to my left,
The coffee noises surrounding me,
The screaming to my right,
The yelling that’s inside of me,
And the scratching of my nails—to ground me.