Stress – A poem

Im falling through a trapdoor.
A voice in my head 
picks at my brain,
curdles my stomach.
It pulls my hair, 
shines a torch in my face, screeching 
IS THAT EVERYTHING

I have to stop myself. 
I scrape at the walls,
boney fingers gripping for a ledge that isn’t there. 
I’m falling faster. 
I can see the rough terrain below - 
there’s no stopping me. 

Even in my final moments, 
it is not my life 
flashing before my eyes, 
the golden days of a child 
playing in the sun.
It is my to-do list. 

Sarah Keenan