【Footsteps】

Palms stuck to the fabric of my shirt, fidgeting as discretely as I tried to push those paranoias from the forefront of my thoughts. Surely there’s a plot, with each breath I take I’m a moment closer to capture. It must be something I’m doing, an incorrect word or action prompting a surge of negativity set on my destruction.

I want to be assured that it’s false, all is well and good—the targets are elsewhere, yes? I’m not even on their minds, in their schemes, no?

Yet I’ve not the strength to confront, to turn and look my pursuers in the eye, out footsteps synced in mirror behaviours. Cowardice undisputed, I leave myself only to worry, to fret over issues that nay exist.