You. You stole away my breath. Robbed me.
Little by little, scooch by scooch, you brought in the walls ‘til they’re so close I can hardly even breathe anymore and I can hardly even move anymore. I cannot maneuver these hallways and I bump my head on the doorframe when I go to try and leave.
At night, I wake up and lying there in the dark, I can feel the ceiling just inches above my face. It’s way too close and there’s not enough air and it’s all closing in on me.
You shrank the van to where it looks like a toy. Kids on skateboards tower over me. Dogs tailgate me. Grandmas laugh at me.
At work now, my office is like a cardboard box and it’s all closing in on me.