by Shana Wolstein
I’m anxious about my anxiety and even though the catalyst never happened the energy I had saved without an outlet is now spilling out of my joints like combustion, my pipes are bursting at the bends.
Sitting still I’m slipping, emotion slick my shoulders feel like parabolas, heavy obtuse angles rolling outward with my energy, resting spoons on a table.
What am I scared of today? Will it completely weigh me down? Rhetorical questions of course. Because the anxiety is running its course and fatigue is an ugly word because it’s ugly. And insomnia is a wet sponge of emotion growing moldy, and insomnia is a weird metaphor for getting older, and insomnia might be a self-made problem I’ve already bought and sold on… or maybe I should just go to bed and try to turn my head off