a little worrywort buried alive.

what’s scarier
to me
is not that I face this battle so often.

you know,
me,
the one where you throw yourself
against the tracks
and wait for the train to come barreling towards
inches from your face
and then decide to pull the plug on this analogy
and relax.

what’s scarier
to me
is the cure feels so damn in reach.
the lost aptitude of salvation
still must be resting on a cross somewhere.

what’s scarier
to me
is the lifelines all around are never too short
the water never too deep
the cold too intense or the
wind too fierce
and yet I always make it out to be that way.

what’s scarier
to me
is the restless nights of self-loathing
that follow a cleanse of
this cabin fever
now that I find myself always
stuck away somewhere.

what’s scarier
to me
is not that I am here so frequently.

it’s that I know how to get out.