Anxiety Is A Girl With My Face, But Not My Body

My anxiety is a child
who plays tag with my
intestines,
braids fishtails
with my pulse.
While she naps unseen
under caramel moons,
I wake
to find her
blameless.

My anxiety is a newborn
baptized in foam,
named from the knife
which killed Abel.
It shrieks in protest
during raft-water sermons,
suckles my breast
for camouflage comfort –

empty currents.
quiet storms.
unstable winds.

My anxiety is a stranger
intruding our house.
He smashes family photos
by accident,
loots all jewelries
with intent.

It is a corpse
stuck in the process of resurrection:
afraid of dying,
afraid of living,
terrified of the drive-in-betweens.

My anxiety is a friend
from my childhood,
is a woman I know
and don’t know.

Anxiety is a girl
with my face,
but not my body…

In her newest Sunday dress
she twirls, twirls
twirls, twirls
twirls

until we both forget
who we’re supposed to be.