The invisible hand

I live with an invisible hand around my throat.

Its palm over my windpipe and fingers winding around my neck,

There to choke me when I wake up, and there to choke me when I sleep,

Keeping me a slave in the hours between and reminding me that there is never a single moment to breathe easily.

Some days are fine. Other days, the hand becomes talons and the fingers become claws. Other days, the hand grips so tightly that my voice is left in cuts. Other days, I'm drowning in the air I breathe right where I stand. My knees buckle and I fall down to floor screaming, racked with chaotic seizures. Other days, I thought the hand would rip out my trachea and that would be the final blissful end that sends my blood into rivers, my days into darkness and my soul into peace. But no. The invisible hand always leaves me enough air just to keep me alive to see the light of tomorrow, to live another insufferable day

And so I keep on living...

No one sees the hand. I hold my head high, put on a fake smile, wish them a good morning and go about my autumn-spun days and wind-swept nights, concealing the torture that goes on underneath. No one needs to know.

In my dreams, I see the man behind the hand in the distance. I grow angry. “How dare you invade my life. How dare you imprison me with chains. You imposer, you oppressor! What gives you the right to rule over my life like some tyrant?” I start sprinting towards him. I grab him by the collar and rip off his mask in search of a face….

But I find none. The man behind the invisible hand had no face. Just a mirror and in the mirror, I see…

Myself.