Yoga Breathing

He sat

at the best

table

to see

through

the windows

of her work.

Alone.

Hat on.

Forgettable attire.

Watching her

in a subtle,

unassuming manner

until she

broke.

Recognition.

Literally

suffocating

because

hate

and anger

and fear

and pure

raw

jagged

emotional

exhaustion

hit her core

after the initial thought—

It’s him.

She broke—

well she was

already broken,

she had

just duck-taped

all the cracks

and put away

the pain

in the trunk of

the basement

of her teenage years.

Then it, he, was

was in her face;

or was he?

Did she see him?

Was it just a copycat?

A lookalike that the

Universe decided

to plop in her lap

and say—

Have a fucking

fun time

with this

because you can’t

mentally deal

with it

in any other

capacity?

Either way

She was

diminished

to such

a fucking

pathetic,

panicked,

woman,

chugging champagne

in the bathroom

hoping it would

numb the possibly perceived

situation.

Black

stained her

face,

yet highlighted

the physical

scar

on her left cheek

from another man.

She felt

15 again, in a diner

in San Francisco,

trying to buy

time until

someone could save her

from the drunken mess

driving her down

wrong streets

and taking her phone

so she couldn’t warn

anyone

there was trouble

in the air again.

She drowned

by the way,

if you were

wondering.

She never

searched

for help;

her mother

told her

to just utilize her

yoga breathing.