Anxiety

These are my birth pains;
I swallowed a wedding song.

I found a nest of tempests,
they have all but laid their eggs.

Even if one cracks open,
the sky will be calm

as a pirouette building
from carnation blossoms.

I will be the bee
of discontent

dancing figure-sevens
before my rapture.

I am made of skin,
I am made of glass.

I am made of ice,
I am made of fire.

— A. P.

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