Syncope

It's not always the sight of needles that triggers it. Sometimes it's the sight of blood. Sometimes the smell of ammonia, of hospitals or rubbing alcohol. Sometimes even just remembering the sight of the room, the blood, the needle. Even remembering, even just talking about it, makes me queasy. That thumping in the heart and the head, the blood pressure rising and then the sudden fall, like an elevator cut loose from cables.

I am dizzy. I am sick. I am trying to breathe more deeply, trying pinch my leg to bring me back, trying to find a place to sit down before I crumble to the floor or tumble like a felled tree in the forest of people around me. A veil creeps over my face and head, the dark takes over, and then

it no longer matters how I fall

or where I land

or who is around

I am floating in the sky

the sea

the dreaming

the dark.