Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Anxiety by Kaylie Hayter



It starts as nothing, a little paper-thin pull right under the breast

bone, too far in to itch. I try to breath it out of me, blow it away

    with the gusting of my forceful lungs, but it spirals. It grows,

        feeds off my air and turns it against me. Perpetuated by my

           effort, it plugs my throat and twists up to my eyes. My

               lungs are capped, screwed shut. There is not enough air

                    in this room, building, block, town, state, country

                        for me to gulp down. It turns into sublime weather
     
                  raging inside my chest, ripping apart the town of safety
         
            and security I have built upon the surface of my diaphragm.

           My safe cars are thrown back, my calm roofs are torn up,

          my secure stairs are left dangling. Destruction

           coming from nothing. My funnel of fear is made

            of paper-thin worry and built-up breath.

                   And even after the storm’s wake is

                          swept up and buried away,

                                  a worried whisper of wind

                                         tugs at the paper-thin

                                                 strings connecting

                                                           each and every

                                                                   rib inside of

                                                                       me.