Rebellion in Anxiety

This one's really just for me so if no one likes it that's okay

this rebellion is the shrieking eye of an otherwise silent storm

it’s the empty teacup

it’s the waiter that will not arrive

it is me not begging you to need me

it is you telling me you love me unprovoked 

and me feeling like the richest of kings in that moment

it is me, calling myself a match instead of kindling

and now you are just burning from my existence

it is me telling you i am sad

even if i can not tell you why

at least i can say that it’s there

it’s me, explaining to my mother that

yes, all men are dangerous

some nights, my rebellion is writing down 

what songs i want played at my funeral

emailing that to my therapist 

and telling her to bookmark that s**t

it’s my mom telling me not all people are rapists 

and me correcting her saying enough are

a rebellion in anxiety is still a crucifixion 

but at least i can admit there are nails

it is picking up a bible, burning it, 

and looking god in the eye to tell him 

i can’t forgive him for making me fear myself

it is the baptism that follows, 

this time, it’s in gasoline, 

and i come up a beacon 

pointing towards a future i only hope i can reach

my rebellion in anxiety is loud, like a screaming calf, 

though whether on its way in 

or out of this world i do not know

i only know the splayed legs, 

the throaty cry of a baby mid travel, 

blood dripping into its eyes, 

a tired mess, just enough fight to tell you it’s fighting,

a blood bath miracle