Social Anxiety

A kind of plastic bag, maybe?

Because it hugs my skin with a hundred little teeth

Pulling so tight my breath is hot and sticky

On my lips, but does not reach very far.

My eyes hunger for objectivity

My fingers for unavoided pain that receeds to purpose.

Skin can be cut, torn, shorn, ripped but not taken off

So I have to believe this barrier exists outside of me

That I might break the suffocating mess

From my body

And discover, like a memory from a slow day

That this life is for me

 

 

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