Cold tendrils like rage
curl around my lungs and chest,
held within the cage
of my ribs.
Adrenaline, hot, mad,
courses through my tibia, femur
burning with the bad
desire to run.
My hands begin to quiver
with the pent-up emotion within
causing a full-body shiver
of reactivity.
Unable to physically fight,
my voice rises with the stress, pitch
high as you police my right
to express it.
“Do this, don’t do that!”
Words that ring hollow like plastic,
“Be careful not to get fat,”
as you balloon.
“Do as I say, not as I do,”
never sat well with me from the
start,
yet I can’t speak to you
about anything.
If your ears were doors,
they would be closed at all times
as your eyes sweep floors,
anticipating misstep.
Anticipation for naught
when one considers the consequences.
With fear, you’re fraught:
can’t
be wrong.
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