For the threads of panic
knotting beneath my breast,
ends trailing into my gut
and tightening like a winch?
All the mindfulness exercises
and self care in the world
can’t dispel this heavy fog
of truly atrocious vibes.
Is it my anxiety disorder or is it:
a) living under fascism
b) microplastics in my brain
c) the earth hurtling toward
d) a fiery manmade disaster
e) all of the above
I lie awake at night holding
imagined conversations
with dinosaurs blinded
by white hot oblivion.
Maybe this will be our year, I say.
My triceratops pal laughs and laughs.
I ask if my chest spasms
are asthma, allergies,
the last gasp of a terrible end,
or the first breath of a new beginning.
She points her horn to a Magic 8 Ball:
Reply hazy, try again
