A Poem Not To Be Shared

There are moments
often now
when my body doesn't fit my skin.
It starts with a flood of impatience
anxiety clinging to nothing particular
nothing at all.
I arch my back as if to unburden myself
of feelings I don't understand.
My legs move of their own accord
and I squirm to find comfort in the
loose springs of my old chair.
Sometimes it lasts all day
and I consider what remedy might be needed
to swaddle the fear.

I must not share these words
but keep them close.
No one will understand.
It is not merely the rustle of anxiety
but something more.
It is death dancing beneath my skin
trying to keep the time
the rhythm
trying to hurry my bones and flesh
into oblivion.

From A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
Benetvision