Anxiety
is like the ugly sweater
the aunt you never see
gives you for christmas,
except eventually
it becomes part of the lining
of your skin,
and no matter how many times
your mother tells you
it’s okay to take it off
and shove it under the bed
until next time you see her,
you can’t.
So, you have to wear it under
all your normal clothes
and pretend you don’t notice
when the tiny fibers of the itchy wool
peak out from underneath your favorite shirt.
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror,
I see the colors of the
anxious fibers speckled
in the subtle bags under my eyes
when I can’t sleep.
Sometimes allergies look the same.
And I am selectively permeable.
So I can pick and choose
which molecules of information
penetrate the pores of my skin.
But sometimes,
attached to my contact lenses
is an anxious fiber
or two
and my tattletale eyes
share my secrets.