Anxiety

By Allison Wolf


You’re a boulder breaking my chest,

snapping me                –           in half

as if I were a giant sequoia,

and you were a category five hurricane.

You take me to a

pitch black cave

where the bats swarm my body,

and the brown spiders crawl up my back.

Like a knife jumping out of its cork block,

stabbing me several times in the stomach.

You run through my arms,

like a wave of lighting,

shaking me so strongly

I almost fall over.

You’re an ambulance running every red light,

ready to send me into shock,

and ruin my day.

Like playing tug of war on my muscles,

pulling each end of the rope so tight,

it could rip in half.

I didn’t ask for you,

you asked for me.