A private malfunction. Biochemical misfire. Sirens mixed in birdsong. The world continues intact, offensively normal. Feet start buzzing as the ground withdraws its interest. The heart kicks like a motor on fumes. Breath enters, then stalls in a narrow corridor, leaving the chest warm and weak as fingers clench fabric. Not fear of something, the fear of everything and none.

The tiny demons wake. Small enough to carry them and their cruelty around. Empty eyes, full mouths, tireless - attaching to whatever hangs loose: hesitation, anticipation, skin. Chewing the threads that keep a mind intact.

Every bite they take, a part of me fades as the strings pull tighter. I feel like dying. Only they know I won’t. They eat decisions before they form. The confidence to leave the house. The ability to open mail. The courage to answer a ringing phone or door. They eat the future first for it weighs the most.

Minutes swell until the present is unbearable by lasting. The smell of ammonia. Counting begins. Four in, Eight out. Sweat gathers where it shouldn’t, heat where shame follows. Unwanted readiness - as if terror and arousal share one door. Moving might accelerate the damage. Speaking would reveal too much. Frozen, legs in unrest. Do you know this moment?

Exposed without a touch, the strings respond. Tighten at the throat, swallowing knots; skin burning from wet friction; a system designed not to kill but to make me small. I reached for hands, for someone else’s weight. Replacement pressure, but I was left with more feeding mouths than before

The eaters learned quickly, which relief charges interest the body cannot afford. They do not want death. Death ends the meal. They want erosion, life converted into avoidances, a body planning only around symptoms with just enough air left to watch them steal and keep inventory of what they take from me.

The wish persists: to be held by something steady, comforted not consumed; someone to feed them before they consume me; to be seen without vanishing.

But they pull. Then again. Pull, pull, pull. A storm roaring inside a body that cannot move. The strings do not stop, never loosen. Only tighten. Day after day: undressed, exposed in restraint,

breathing razor blades.