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.