Limbs Underwater

Sometimes, my mind plays the violin,
And my fingertips bleed.
But the anxiety rips the strings off.
Because they are not perfection.

Sometimes my limbs feel gangly and childlike,
hanging off the dock.
On a September afternoon.
Other times, they feel too heavy to swing the duvet off.

My limbs feel like green bean casserole,
And I have to wait to fill my plate.
My anxiety holds my chest open,
And leaves my chest hollow and heavy at the same time.

The air is like glass, then other times,
it feels like a warm kiss.
Waiting to revive me.
But most of the time, it’s like limbs underwater.