Try to Explain It

The last anxiety attack is still stuck on my lips,
parching them, reaching down my throat
to the pit of my empty stomach.
I’m never hungry anymore.
You asked if you could get me food
as I laid there, pupils wide as the moon,
shaking from the inside out.
I told you no. I told you
I think I might throw up.
But not from the tequila, no
from the anxiety.
And I’m sure you wondered how I got there.
You see, we had been fine, talking, sharing,
the same subtle things we’d done all night.
But you brought up the probabilities of loss.
You mentioned the ideas of leaving,
the weights of mistakes,
all of which clawed incessantly at the
back of my head, my eyes, until
I started to feel overwhelmed. The ideas
of losing, and hurting, and loving, all tiny
little seeds,
they began sprouting vines in my body
with off-shoot leaves full of
“what-ifs” and “how comes”.
It was all I could do to lay on the floor,
my body, vibrating with the intensity,
motionless otherwise.
I could not tell you the weight these things
press upon me,
or why my brain chose now
to entertain futures that may not exist.
All I know is
it took every single effort to keep the tears
from spilling out in waves of sobs.
I didn’t even want to tell you.
Who really wants to hand out shares of their misery?
But honesty has always been my biggest strength (and,
also, occasionally my biggest pitfall), and so
I told you I was panicking.
My brain was aching to be able
to convey the reaons and the meaning,
but you never asked.
No, you simply smiled your effortless, wide smile,
and embraced me the way I was.
You took care of me and stayed closer
than I ever could have hoped for.
What a beautiful thing it is
to expect the rain clouds,
but find the sun.