Follow the sun

Here in this moment crowned,

bejewelled,

larded with gold and beset with diamonds;

Encumbered, engorged, and bloated it is.

A sigh, 

A whisper,

A retreat. 

To return again. And seek the milk of the teat. A fool

To be so besought by the cornocupia of the land. To rise and feast and slumber. 

That witch. 

I envy her. 

It's dangerous to be liked by everyone. 

Who are you, 

a cult leader

driven by God to ascend the golden stairway

or (or, or, or...) 

a moth alight in its own flame; a torch

transcendent and immortal? 

no, no, no, no, no, no, no. 

you failed

to be what they wanted. 

And you will fail again. 

While you watch for their approval, 

the lotus in your heart is torn to shreds by birds. 

You are left

with nothing. A fool

with empty hands

and scorched wings. 

Who am I to have a heart? If I could give it willingly, I would pull it out from its roots, unmoor it from its sleeping place, rip it from the earth. I hate the sound of it beating.

The sound reminds me of each and every time I have failed. I am alone, it screams. I am alone and you have failed. Die, it whispers as it holds me and kicks at my lungs. 

Where do I go where anxiety cannot rush in like tidal waters following the moon? Where can I go to drown it when I am drowning in it? This she-beast. 

If anxiety wore the pronouns he and him and his, what would my relationship to him be? Would he be like a brother I wrestle with on the floor while the phone rings over and over, a watchful monitor of latchkey kids? Or would he be like a father, using laughter as a vice to crush emotion's windpipe? In an uncle's clothes, anxiety would be that strange feeling that bubbles up from the gut but stays inside like a soda that's continuously shaken, the pressure never released. 

My anxiety does not call himself as such. My anxiety wears the faces of my childhood bullies. She sucks the corner of her lips and balls the bottom of her dress in her hands. She adjusts the headband to a new, different, and still excruciating angle. She holds court in my gall bladder, playing four corners in the asphalt of my large intestine. She, her, hers, anxiety smiles.  

It looks like me. 

A small moment 

and I have forgotten you completely. 

The way the air changes when you're near.

It's fragmented and perfect - like how molecules were described in middle school science. Somewhat vague and nebulous, yet close and intimate. A world unknown and all around me. 

You pull up and it was as if I had never stepped out of that moment that you looked into my eyes. You were trying to find me there, somewhere wandering, tugging at the world like it owed us friendship and closeness. Something to covet of our own. 

I am used to not being trusted. 

You shout statements at me. 

Sweet tea

reduces to vinegar and text check-ins; the place where you wax poetic about pride.

These sweeping generalizations

are your generation's 

hello. 

Find me nowhere. 

I prefer to wade in the hollow

of wishing you well,

so that I don't have to strip off pieces of my flesh to give to you. 

I am so used to laying myself bare that 

I can't see the viscera

born anew

amongst the scarring

of youth. 

The metal taste on my tongue when I read your solipsistic paragraphs

feels like home. 

The bridge of your nose.
Tiny spiders across my thighs.
Imprints of baby ghosts trailing down my stomach. 

I wept, thinking I could almost have you. This intangible feeling like a catacomb. I am the creature that you salt flesh for in the evening while your mother sleeps in the hall. A commentary on your ability to dote on her fretting while feeding a beast of your own. Galvanized and erudite. You cage yourself in. 

Pretty thing. 

Here

I call you into my mind,

a raven bidden to my stead. 

The colours look darkest in the daylight

when you are tired and hungry.

Gasping,

you crawl to me. 

I will bury you again. 

Under the surface of the water, you are pulled by concrete shoes and your inhibitions. A manta ray and a regret flit around your shoulders as you consider what you can salvage from the depths. As you glance down, you see a school of fish feast below on liver, fins tickling your kidneys and spleen. 

Your cup is full, you plead. 

The sea returns nothing.