anxiety is wet sand seeping through a growing hole in a sieve of positivity, lasting like migrating birds arriving to find snowfall, a **** victim of hands bound by unmet expectations and spines realigning to throats and throats plugged with damp cement and every time I speak it dries a little bit more, the english language is written by children and broken branches carving into the back of my throat with no way out, I’ve never viewed my ribcage as prison bars until now, I’ve never been locked out by my own walls until now and this sickness is breeding vines all over any guard I try to knock down, it’s not contagious but it will wrap around your heart like a drunk tattoo.