Every morning I have my usual crise de panique on the way to work—my regular I want
something, and then I don’t, there’s no time (when is the right time), I have nothing to lose, I
have nothing to gain, what if I fail, or even worse, what if I don’t—only this time the fatigue and anxiety drug on well into the day, and it wasn’t until I released that I finally found some relief, which was pretty wow, the way the new mother feels energized by a few hours of sleep, the way she forgets the moist sickness rising up in her throat when the baby pulls on her nipple and her heart beats faster, before hormonal shifts, before exhaustion, before guilt, before the blinds drawn shut, the house forgotten, before pressing her face into her arms, hands digging deep into her flesh like it’s a peach, before pulling the skirt over her head as if to disappear, as if to dissolve into the air and be gone gone gone, before I woke up tired as fuck again the following day, before I was there but elsewhere. In the shower I stayed worried, though I knew if I panicked, I’d feel way better, more myself, so after cell-scrubbing cleansers, after toners, after serums, I put my head between my knees and let it bang in.

Bojana Stojcic, a native of Serbia living in Germany, has work featured in Barren Magazine, Spelk, Okay Donkey, MockingHeart Review, and Versification, amongst other publications. She wishes she could just put her feet up and heave a euphoric sigh of relief.