By Abigail Edwards


Anxiety is a drawn bowstring

A knife set to go straight through my heart

A storm of steam bubbling in my stomach

A hurricane forming to tear me apart


Where can I turn?


My mother’s hands

The dog’s soulful eyes

The smell of cinnamon

The taste of curly fries


A blanket across my lap

A song I hum by note

The stuffed bear that’s always been there

Stories my younger self wrote


Cocooned within the chaos

Daydreams yet to form

Support to stop the trembling

The calm within the storm


Though at times peace is distant

It can find its way to each

In small forms or in miracles

We’ll find it when we seek






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