My heart is a cuckoo clock that chimes and pulses with each passing minute.

  My lungs are a pair of balloons that seem to grow and grow and grow, then explode.

  My hands are like claws, something that is made to grab and clench whatever I intend to, just as it slips out of my hands, my nails digging into my clammy palms.

  My skin is but a weight, covering and inching across my body as my various muscles and bones peek through, attempting to claw and drill through, ripping goosebumps all over my body.

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  My mind is but a prison. A puzzle that cannot be solved, and once solved, is an endless void that consumes my body whole.

  My mind controls my heart, my heart controls my lungs, my lungs control my skin, and my skin controls my hands. Tis but a pestering cycle that clouds my thoughts. Tis a cycle as adrenaline pumps into my veins, arteries, and heart. Tis but a cycle that controls my brain and body.

  Tis but a cycle I shall end.