There's a knot in your throat, but it's not so bad.
You used to tremble into the night, sleep,
The sunlight tore you out of your dreams.
You'd wake, and say:
"Is it over yet? Did I wake up?"

"Is it still there?
It's still there."

You used to think
maybe the fear turned you into a piece of art;
maybe laughing for 2 hours made you art.
It didn't make you art.
There aren't any museums around here.

Day-long anxiety attacks,
months, years,
you still don't feel where you are
and talking about it hurts too much.
Let's
stop
talking about it
for now.