Self-Infliction

anxiety rips
the stomach walls,
wrenches
the heart,
a drop of molten metal,
into the open wound.

fear finds
a guttural sound
welling inside,
ballooning in the throat,
only to catch
against the back
of the tongue.

worry wills
the hand,
balled in a fist,
to seek the
yielding wall,
and crush itself
in a tangle
of bone and flesh
and splinters.

as if it would be relief
to shatter
a glass ornament
between the teeth,
tonguing the shards
of papery glass
crunching,
scraping,
against delicate enamel
no longer smooth.

as if it would be relief.