In Case of Anxiety, Break the Bank
Will you hold your breath when anxiety knocks on your door?
Will you portal into a wishing well on a cloudland tucked away in your capillaries? Will you try to speak when the shards of broken wind chimes clog your pulmonary arteries?
Will you swing on the pulley like a trapeze artist at the Jumbo Circus you begged Ma to visit? Will your hands spiral like Icarus when you are sun-kissed?
When your thought trains have a nervous breakdown, there is a stampede of passengers in your windpipe. When humans read the poetry of the Earth to keep themselves alive. When your passions are folded by society like secret school notes. When an off-key Moonlight Sonata bathes in your throat. Then, please proceed as follows:
𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦:
A blow straw painting of lightning in the sky.
𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦?
Indian autumns ignited in vintage lamps.
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭.
An address book of self-hatred.
𝘐𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘮 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺?
A handcrafted jewelry box in the attic.
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘫𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘬𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘻𝘢𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺.
A vanity mirror with an array of makeup and toxic positivity.
𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺.
𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭:
Fingers carving crescent moons on the inside of your palms.
𝘈 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴.
You trip on jump ropes of consciousness.
𝘔𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴.
Carmine bites on your lips.
𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘩𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘴.
Overblown balloons filling up your chest.
𝘊𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴.
𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳:
Art whispers, “There is no wrong way to be holy”
𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.
Humdrum of the market where identities are bartered at the magic shop.
𝘎𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 1857 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.
The sound of panic when a child leaves your finger and runs with light-up sneakers in your mind.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯-𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴.
𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭:
The turpentine of rage tucked into the deepest folds of your braids.
𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘵.
The breath of fabric softener in handknit sweaters of metaphors.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘑𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵.
𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦:
The taste of leftover hope.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦.
Humans read poetry of the Earth to keep themselves alive. Healing begins when you start writing one.
//“𝘐𝘯 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺, 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘬”// enigma
Taglist under the cut (please send an ask to be added or removed from the list 🥺💖)
