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- Five things I can see.
A window. A tree. A crack in the pavement.
Leaves crushed beneath my shoe, like natures confetti.
The sky turning pale with dawn.
- Four things I can touch.
My sleeve. The wall.
My keys. My own skin.
I press my fingernails into my palm hard enough to leave little moons.
I don't feel the pain
- Three things I can hear.
A car. A bird. My heart. No.
That's inside me. It doesn't count.
I start again.
A car. A bird. My breathing.
Too loud. Too fast.
- Two things I can smell.
Dirt. Something sweet.
I can't place it. I can't place anything.
The path keeps going.
My feet keep following it.
One step. Another. Another.
I have forgotten how walking is supposed to work.
I have forgotten how breathing is supposed to work. Is it in in out, or in out in out?
I have forgotten what happens if I stop.
- One thing I can taste.
Copper, from my tongue.
Now the whole exercise makes sense.
Five things I can see.
Four things I can touch.
Three things I can hear.
Two things I can smell.
One thing I can taste.
One body trying desperately to convince itself it is still safe.
One body running out of air.
One body counting down until the panic lets go.
© Luna Rose.
Performed September 30.
Text version published Tuesday, 13 October 2026