Panic is a bathroom sink,

Grime-covered and overflowing,

Tearing the skin off my hands

With its vicious heat splashing,

Burning cold through spilled ink.


Inexorable dripping

From the rusted faucet,

Straight to its slimy veins

Sliding effortlessly through my entire being,

Puke mixed with minty paste

An attempt to be free.


Cerise-stained and overpowered

With bleach, an attempt to be clean.

Rotten all over and

Drowning in sour suffering,

Innocence and purity forever

Lost underneath.


Incessantly imbued and

Utterly consuming,

Panic is a bathroom sink.


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