Proem (yes, katy)

I sweat profusely in airports, like I'm clenching something illicit in me. I become wet and slippery as phlegm. I reek of anxiety; the more perfume I try on, the worst I smell. Anxiety grows on me like a pungent mold. Almost imperceptibly, but obstinately, until I am no more than a concoction of animal essences riddled by paperwork. Paperwork to prove the paperwork, the stale stench of bureaucracy. I am one smelly drawer of manila folders, with proof of existence inside. What becomes of me when the paperwork burns? What becomes of it when I do? I will reek further, and it—it will procreate.