Two short poems: Her name is anxiety and… Nathaniel

By Hannah Armour

Her name is anxiety and 

She lives on the surface of you,

a thin layered coating 

of pure adrenaline; she

tastes like everything at once,

a thousand bees stinging 

your tongue and you’re

simultaneously still

and moving – the world

whizzes past with 

a high pitched whistle,

and the bees move to 

your bloodstream,

limbs shake and

you’re out of control:

she owns you.

Nathaniel 

He’s impulsive:

eyes too big, too blue,

too wide. They take 

in the blurry world

through thick lenses.

Glasses magnify

tired eyes,

heavy bags held up by

skin spread smooth

turned purple overnight,

bruised by the weight

of all that he has seen.