This Ifrit of a Thing

Poetry

There is a pressure in the air.

A tension that makes the body bend and twitch.

It’s not a new thing.

It might ne’er been a new thing.

But it comes and it goes.

And it mocks us.

When the eyes are around you feel them.

When the eyes are not around you feel them.

The nerve is tugged.

The veins stream with fluids.

The combs and perfect rows reveal.

And the nerve is yanked.

The air becomes heavier.

So heavy it can be heard.

We can only hear it.

More eyes.

There or not, we feel them.

Now the nerve is torn from its foundations.

The pressure in the air,

Makes homes from the cavities of our lungs.

The body bends and twitches.

It comes again.

And boils the fluids.

This Ifrit of a thing.

Gargles on its own spew as it mocks,

From the spaces we deny it entry.

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