Dromophobia

It’s that feeling.

Looking down at the concrete between your shoes and fixating on a tiny crack and not thinking about not paying attention to that whoosh in your ears of the cars speeding by. It’s that feeling when you pry your head up and stare straight ahead at that red hand, taunting you, laughing at you as you stand there and you can hear your heart thumping in your chest and your breath is becoming uneven and the air is burning your throat as you inhale but you can’t make it stop make it stop make it stop. And that red hand is still there glaring back at you across that endless ocean of black black concrete and you stare back because you have no other choice. And you know that that fucking red hand is going to change into that stupid white man and you start to feel nauseous just at the thought of it and why the fuck am I so afraid of something so stupid

And it’s that feeling when you’re staring at the red hand and it’s blinking now but your feet are held down by the weight of the world until it’s static

(and you can’t help but feel a guilty guilty guilty relief)

But then it’s also sucking your breath in and refusing to think for god knows how long (it feels like eternity but also no time at all) as you sprint across the crosswalk without looking either way and not thinking about what you just did until you get to the other side and let out a sob of relief.

And then it’s just you stiffly crying on the sidewalk and the cars are whooshing by again but you’re not listening

(until tomorrow)

(because today the demons didn’t win but they’ll always be there)

(hiding behind everything you do)