Anxiety does not whisper.
It rattles the chest like a drum,
pulses in the throat until words collapse,
fills the mouth with bile,
convinces the lungs they are drowning in air,
a flood where there should be life.
It ties the stomach into knots,
twists them until you retch,
churns the gut until dignity buckles,
vomit bitter on the tongue.
It shakes the body without mercy,
knees buckling like broken hinges,
tremors spilling through the skin,
sweat pouring from trembling hands,
until even your bowels betray you
and shame runs darker than sweat.
It interrupts without warning,
in the market, in the pew,
in the silence of your bed,
a sudden siren in the body
that swears you are seconds from death.
It mocks prayer in the dark,
scrambles words like broken tongues,
leaves you groping in the dark,
hands searching blind for a God
you can no longer name.
It holds your mind ransom,
a tyrant of endless rehearsals,
chaining the hours to alarms
that never stop ringing.
And when you think it is finished,
anxiety is only beginning.
It multiplies, spirals, corrodes,
until even your rest is haunted,
and every dream bares its teeth.
These words belong to the Dark Psalter, a collection of laments written in shadow. Continue reading the full series here.
In Luminance 