“Everybody feels fucking anxious.”
Just something I say to myself a few times a week,
Generalising the pressure rising inside of me like a kettle about to boil.
Brushing off the insidious feeling of being alone despite being surrounded.
Some days I feel like a coffee cup that’s too full in a speeding car on a bumpy road.
Thrown about this way and that.
Sometimes the hand that holds me has to take a break,
Wary of the hotter bits of me that breaks out every now and then.
A wave of emotion came over me that night, bawling my eyes out into your arm,
The rock crumbling against the mighty sea.
The image I had carefully constructed was fading and I
Was fully at your mercy.
“Why the fuck do I feel like this?”
Just something I ask myself most mornings.
It is not just tiredness that invades my thoughts but a
malicious weariness that pulls me down ever lower.
The dam is fit to burst and has not been emptied in years.
Cracks have appeared in fissures and grew,
Spiralling out in icy cold tendrils along the surface.
If someone looked closer they could reach out, touch it and watch it crack.
Even as you held me you knew this would not be the last time.
Paper doesn’t beat rock.