Anxiety (or Butterflies in Flight)

Butterflies flutter
to life
when anxious
minutes elapse.
My stomach
turns outside
like an elevator ride
to hell,
all flips
and turns
and heat.
Jazz dancers
play out routines
on my insides
and heart races,
stutters,
races.
I am a jungle gym
of swinging,
kicking feet,
an amalgamation
of wings
and heels
and hands
and heart pounding
collisions
of weight
and fear
and surity.
Hands shake
and tremble
and quake
in wake
of that first flutter,
that initial transpiration
of anxious,
nervous
beauty.

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2 thoughts on “Anxiety (or Butterflies in Flight)

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