The fire crackles.

Anxiety sidles up beside me.

She’s been impatient all evening,

puts a blanket over her lap,

and smiles at me

It’s too early to say if this feeling will overcome me,

Sometimes I think I want it to.

I think it’s interesting that I’m inclined to writing

but my second worst fear is that I say too much

or I said the wrong thing.

My need to know everything backfires

when my mouth lets one thing slip,

reckless.

It always feels reckless in the aftermath.

In the recollection.

In the darkness.

And it feels like a slow drowning,

arms working too hard to stay afloat.

Water sloshing in my lungs

as I cough up every regret,

gasping for relief.

My body aches and shivers,

wishing I hadn’t said anything at all.

The quiet part of me,

that waits,

holds secrets close

wars with the desperate part

that yearns

for connection.

I’m split in two,

maybe seven.

And I’m afraid of everything,

even me.