My own constant hell – a poem

My own constant hell
Eyes squeezed tight shut.
Hands clamped over my ears.
Hiding in a corner far from them all.
Taking short, shallow breaths.
I rock and rock but it does not help.
Where am I, you ask.
‘Sensory hell’ I reply.

Curtains shut.
Lights off.
Sunglasses on.
Eyes clenched shut.
Yet still too bright.
A searing pain through my head.
Eyes burning like volcanic lava.

‘I can’t eat that,’ I tell you.
‘Why on earth not?’
I debate in my head to tell the truth or lie.
I am brave.
‘The texture makes my heart pound
my mouth burn
and I want to scratch my tongue out’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it is soft.’
I put it in my mouth and immediately
it’s sensory hell.

My ears are pounding.
I want to scratch them off.
I am being beaten repeatedly on my ear drum.
Yet you don’t see that.
I yelp and cover my ears.
Ears which already have ear plugs in.
Yet the beating continues, I’ll never be free.

A bath bomb
Cleaning products.
I smelt one.
I smelt them all at once,
and now my head pounds and nausea rises within.

You reject that this sensory hell exists.
Yet question why I’m unwell.
You question my sunglasses indoors,
my noise cancelling ear plugs,
my need for breaks.
Yet never stop to think that I’m in bloody agony
from the world.
Welcome to my sensory hell.

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