fear

it feels like anger 

being caged 

slowly 

closer, closer 

warmer, warmer 

prickly. 

touch me and I will shatter 

in your hand 

not in shards

but warm pink confetti 

sprinkles of horror 

each piece screaming 

where it used to be joined

to another piece 

I find myself 

saying I’m sorry 

a lot. 

the cracks run down my arms,

down my chest 

tiny pieces of pink 

that could have been whole—

me. 

why is it hard to move 

when I am angry? 

because I am not angry

I am in lockdown 

the anger is after all 

not its own thing 

it is just 

the siren sounding 

as the doors and windows

slam shut; my body closes

against the fray 

closer, closer 

heat 

my chest is sharp and

bright a cage of glass 

of pain 

it may break this time 

one of these times 

poor heart 

it did not ask to be 

fossilized in terror 

this young 

my body may have been

a temple once 

but now 

it is pink 

a house of sea glass 

tentatively stacked 

ready to crumple

too warm for comfort 

and I wait here 

lest it fall 

heat 

spikes 

it would be nice 

not to be shot 

by my own nerves 

red spikes like arrows 

lancing through 

from rib to rib 

while pink fragments scatter 

down my arms. 

this anger might just 

be pain 

after all.

By Pamela Zimmerman