Shaking Hands

My hands shake at breakfast

Every cup of tea feels like a heavy weight

Every stare in my direction, an attack on a never-lasting calm

My lips open to utter a few words of discomfort

But like invisible string pulling through fabric, my lips pull taut

I swallow the words I wish to make out, but a cry for help mimics silence...

They'll never see the struggle arise, will they?

The seas are raging, but it feels like a slow drowning, something like thick bleach in the lungs...

They'll see me, but they'll never truly see what they should...the entity

It feeds when I'm restless, it knows the alkaline in my blood stream

There is wine in my tragedy

There is fruit in my grievance

My shaking hands are it's tempo

My reluctance a chorus

My hands shake

I brace, but it's too late, safety feels estranged

If you leave the table you'll spare the sight

Please leave, stand and walk

There is only room for one in the decay that begs for more passengers

My hands shake, shaking off composer like ash mimicking snowfall

My eyelids shut creating tight-lines I'm too weak to walk across

The connection is lost, the heaving is perpetual

But you'll stay, you'll watch, and you'll observe

The hands will continue shaking

And you'll speak words like, "It's okay."

An empty attempt at hiding your own naivety

…your hands are steady, and that breeds guilt in you...