There is a Cerberus in me,
chained, like a captive.
The breathing of the anxious beast,
it makes my head quake when I forget
about getting old or watching lovers die.
The three heads argue with themselves
in my stomach, rattling my bones,
pulling on the chains, trying to agree.
The more I sit still, the more it wants
me to just go and never stop,
to keep running and running
in three different directions,
against my instinct. Whenever I stop,
to catch my breath, I feel the teeth
ripping at anything that they can reach.
The beast that guards the gates of hell
has dug a hole inside my inhibitions.