Between Bruises & Blooms

Anxiety knows
where I live.

She lets herself in
without knocking,

sits cross-legged
at the end of my bed

and starts listing
everything
that could go wrong.

Did they sound angry?

Did you say too much?

Did you forget something?

What if the kids—

What if the house—

What if tomorrow—

What if
what if
what if.

She can turn
a period at the end
of a text message
into a funeral.

A missed call
into catastrophe.

A headache
into a death sentence.

Silence
into proof
that everyone I love
has finally had enough of me.

And the worst part is

sometimes
she uses my own voice.

Sometimes
I cannot tell
where I end

and she begins.