Anxiety by Kaylie Hayter

It starts as nothing, a little paper-thin pull right under the breast bone, too far in to itch.
I try to breath it out of me, blow it away with the gusting of my forceful lungs, but it spirals.
It grows, feeds off my air and turns it against me. Perpetuated by my effort, it plugs
my throat and twists up to my eyes. My lungs are capped, screwed shut.
There is not enough air in this room, building, block, town, state, country
for me to gulp down. It turns into sublime weather raging inside
my chest, ripping apart the town of safety and security
I have built upon the surface of my diaphragm.
My safe cars are thrown back, my calm roofs are torn up,
my secure stairs are left dangling. Destruction
coming from nothing. My funnel of fear is made
of paper-thin worry and built-up breath.
And even after the storms wake is
swept up and buried away,
a worried whisper of wind
tugs at the paper-thin
strings connecting
each and every
rib inside of
me.