on sunday evenings i get anxious and it's usually your fault
the things you don’t understand could fill a cathedral,
eyes screaming for you to know
like paper fans unfolding in my chest,
slitting gills for me to breathe through
because my lungs have been at full capacity for days
waiting patiently for you to realize
what i’m asking for.
dance like stilts or stilettos around the issue,
just to spare your feelings and my dignity.
what it’s like at night,
listening to you breathe even
while my mind retches,
chokes on its own acidic morbidity
and fails
to reach any pleasing conclusion at all.
if it weren’t for your gentleness,
your quiet nature and self deprecating smile
i might feel better by now.
my arteries might be clear,
unclogged of anxious terror
that i’ve lost even the ugliest parts of you
(and myself).
i smother under loose fitting jeans and t-shirts,
your arm an eight hundred pound weight
crushing limbs and lips
and the ability to just get up and go
and the desire not to.
you don’t understand.
you don’t feel the pressure under your skin
to crawl out and watch
from a less obvious vantage point.
you can’t tell when i’m lying
so i do it all the time.
they gather around my ankles
so i wade when i mean to walk.
i passed you and you haven’t noticed yet.
i itch:
a single, burning pain climbs up my leg.
i would unzip it if i could-
creep out, slow stunted steps
of marrow and veins.
i would curl up on the floor,
a mess of tissue, eyes, and paper fans
and sleep,
without the confines of an ugly, itchy body.
the things you don’t understand could fill a cathedral,
wide echoing spaces
like walls and doors and rafters.
or a shoe box,
lying flat and lined with broken hair.