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

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

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

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

until we both forget
who we’re supposed to be. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Filipina mermaid. Author of WAR SONGS and Coffee & Cigarettes.

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