I wake up with urgency’s sandpaper claws
pawing at my throat. I crunch down
on my breakfast bowl of rusty nails, each bite
pumping iron into my veins.

My shadow whispers in Morse code, dots
and dashes of dread tapping out each deadline.
I wear my panic like a fur coat in July,
heavy and sweltering—yet soft and lush.

The bedroom’s clock ticks: a cricket on amphetamines,
each second a shriek; a marionette
with strings made of spider silk.

Without it, my mind deflates
into limp balloon, purposeless—but in a grip
it expands, thoughts filling
with helium, factories producing
with manic speed.

I wish I could drink my coffee
with a dash of kerosene, fuel
for the furnace inside, burning through
the sludge of lethargy, a heartbeat—
a frantic, endless drum solo.

I’ve tried to cleanse myself
of this poison, but tranquility
is a too-soft bed, swallowing
and suffocating me in its embrace.
I crave the sharpness, what keeps
my body alive—alert.

Anxiety is my puppet master, strings
woven from electric eels,
a jolt that hurts but keeps me
hurtling through the chaos.

A thousand ants marching through
my bloodstream. In the madness, I am vibrant.

Photo by Kasper Rasmussen on Unsplash