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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