4.06

This tight fisted anxiety has been a close side kick
since six.

I was small, had a tiny nose, little wrists and the blondest hair
this side of adolescence.

Inside: a bundle of angry bees SCREAMING and flying hard against my heart
trying to get loose.

A nervous little Nelly with snaggle teeth.

Here I am now;
bad skin, terrible fingernails and a flat chest -
still struggling with this son-a-bitch sad song.

I bite his face off;

he turns around and whispers some shit about
----mortality------
----fragility------
some god-damned gritty scare tactics;

Low Blow, I say.
But then,
as expected,
I stew.
And cry.

And welcome him back to life with the open arms he needs to thrive;
he even invites his friends.