I am bitten fingernails
down to the quick –
sharp edges of
identity,
lips, tooth against hangnail –
loose skin;
the catch of anxious breaths.
The welling
blood between padded
thumbs,
shoved into pockets,
hidden in the grasp of
restlessness.
The aching husk
of palms, claws –
nerves ill at ease.
I am the first sign
of panic.
Advertisements
