Have I got the stomach for this?
Probably not.
My gut sits in coils around my torso— squeezing
each time I draw a breath too deep.
There is a trapdoor in my throat which snaps shut,
nerves hammer home like nails,
it becomes the entrance to a fortress, rivetted with iron,
confidence turning to smoke in my mouth,
the tongue behind my teeth is charcoal crumbling.
Every word comes out broken, hissing,
someone sees an ember and crushes it beneath their foot.
I used to think I could starve the anxiety,
or it thought it could starve me.
Truth is, I will devour fear if I am hungry enough,
grimace at the taste, go back for another bite.
These eyes are so much bigger than my belly.