Anxiety

Your teeth act like corrosive agents
for the insides of your cheeks, taking
one layer down with every second thought
and anxious regret, spilling blood
onto your tongue and carefully indenting
the flesh in your mouth to make it
look like a graph of your decisions,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if the blood
in your mouth were acid, it could
never melt your tongue.
Your thumbs rub against each other
in the same way the bones of
your wrist glide against the sound
of panic in your marrow,
friction between two identities with
the same print and subtle ridges,
sometimes holding on to one other only for a second,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if they chafe each other
every time you time you think, they will
find each other and acknowledge, accept, and stay.
Your nails are short and misshapen,
their length decreasing with every bead
of sweat on your brow when all they want you to do
is think, decide, act, and you know you cannot
as long as your teeth keep chewing
the skin off the tips of your fingers
and your heart beats slowly when
you panic and at the speed of light
when all you need is a slow rhythm in your chest,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if your nails
aren't long enough to scratch the angst
off your forehead, your heart, however
untimely it's speed is, will beat as long as you
keep the fight going,
it's beating, you're breathing, you're fighting.