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Panic is a Race
By Natalie O’Keefe, 10
On most days
I am a fleeting thing
Running away from hellos
Towards insufferable goodbyes,
Harmonious strands of words
Holding me back.
In the past,
I was still.
Moss and ivy
Over planted feet
And roots entangled my ankles
While vines entangled my chest.
In rain, I rusted
And every joint screamed,
“Keep moving, keep moving, keep going.”
The escape of oneself is a rhythm,
Harmony between swift footsteps
And shallow breaths.
This Panic is a race,
These words are a snare.
Eye Contact is a fierce “don’t go.”
This Panic is living.
This Panic is escaping.
This Panic is a race.
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