an ulcer waiting to happen
sits in the metaphorical pit of my stomach
it has been there for years

I feel it in
the shaking of my hands
from medication that made it chronic
and the fidgeting of myself

my feet tap
my knee bounces
and sometimes it is only the
1 2 3 4 of counting my glasses
an earring in each ear
and my septum piercing
that keeps me sane

but that is often not enough
these movements do not quiet
the urges to flee

and I curse my anxiety
a disorder that is slowly
eroding my insides and outsides

I curse this disorder
from the cuts chewed into my lips
the blunted and bitten fingernails
down to my legs that are always
ready to go go go
because this isn’t who I was supposed to be