There’s a chill stuck in my marrow.
A disquieting shiver holding court in my tarsals.
Pile on the layers.
Stuff on the stuffing.
Bury, bury, bury my bones in wool—
But Anxiety is a cold fire
Freezing all as it burns.
Well, that’s a depressing splat of spit-up.
Burp rag, anyone?