Before I step into the spotlight I choke
Down a glass of anxiety to appease them.
The faint flutter in my core comes
Not from butterflies meandering
(Those winged creatures of change
Are far too sanguine for my intrinsicality).
Instead, my walking cadaver writhes
With spiders in my stomach.
Each one tickling my quilting
And prickling my countenance.
Their sinister silk weaves many webs
Of purposeless tangled knots.
When my stomach nears overpopulation,
They ascend to my head and heart.
If only the foul twines they spin
Could reconnect my mind to my mouth.
Alas, the mindless heathens toil aimlessly
At gnarled sculptures of twine.
I can take the provocateurs no longer,
So I decide to flush them out for good,
Following my anxiety shot with a cyanide chaser.