I follow myself around my flat,
feeding the time
my contemplations;
it’s already dark by 3 in the afternoon.

I carry my turmoil
with pins in my pockets,
i keep my hands inside.

Depression boils
all my frozen insides,
makes them bland
and chewable.

Look at my seams: untouched, raw.
I sew them gently,
my hands were shaking
with almost fear
that I can't put
a needle through my soul
myself. Alone.

I am afraid to say, to be the one
who finally admits
that help comes forward,
if only I
let someone touch the seams,
and heal it,
and help me heal myself.

Panic stifles, suffocates.

My throat feels dry; a clump,
that brings disquiet in,
sticks there like a hull, a twig,
and moves its sharper edges
along my trembling soft insides.

"Get out!"
I would scream,
"Get out, worries and my fears.
Remain, serene feeling."