we were in a Japanese restaurant

for a birthday party

and everyone was laughing

because it had been

a while since life had let us

be with one another.

I always wondered why

I spent so much of my time apologizing

for things about myself that were

normal-- like my need to be alone

sometimes, or my anger at the world

for how unfair it was.

your grief took the shape

of your body,

and I mistook it for you.

it wasn't pretty, or decent,

or becoming.

it was, instead, another

amber glass bottle, a too-loud

remark, an unabashed

inappropriate gesture.

it was uncomfortable

for me to feel it

enveloping you

so deeply,

so openly.

the grief permeated my skin,

it's emotional vibrations

shifted from your seat to mine.

it was uncomfortable to feel against my

own skin-- this grief that was so

wholly unbecoming of you.

but I cant imagine how much

your bones must ache from

the heaviness of what is still missing.

I was uncomfortable, and,

because of it, I resented you.

how unfair of me to feel this way,

but I cannot apologize, again,

sometimes it actually does

comes when I'd expect it.

You would think I would

know what to do with it

by now: the heavy feeling

and tingling

and hard-up breathing,

the room shaking,

eyes staring out

but only seeing what's inside.

If I could tell someone what it

looks like in there, I'd say:

It looks a lot like a car ride that ends with

me spinning out of control.

It feels like the moment before you

know you really, really fucked up

and whatever happened can't be fixed,

that absolute dread of how stupid you

are to have caused so much to

go wrong.

Or maybe, better yet, its

kind of like thinking about how

everything you do alters the future

and what it you pick up

the chip crumbs off the floor,

and then, in the chain that is life,

you set up a web of future that

someone dies sooner than they

would've before.

It's constantly choosing not to

pick up the chip crumbs because

now you have that heavy feeling

and tingling and hard-up breathing

eyes staring, but not seeing anything

but what is on the inside

over and over

and over again.

Anxiety, then, feels a lot like being still

and running a marathon.

Like holding

nothing, and collapsing from the weight.

Like chip crumbs are bombs ready to

detonate just as fight or flight kicks in.

Just fucking pick them up.

It's easy.

Bend down and pick them off the

floor.

Just do it.

You will feel so much better.

But what if I cause the world to explode?

It already feels like it has.

That doesn't make sense?

I get that, I do.

But, anxiety makes you feel and look