Sins / March

March. Finally. I dreaded February as I knew I would. I suppose I should feel relief. I suppose I should feel a lot of things. My therapist tells me to focus on the physicality of emotions to better understand them. I’m ashamed to admit I have practiced this fewer times than fingers on my right hand. She tells me she’s proud of me twice a month. I cannot afford to see her more often. March manifests as small green bugs scattering upon my skin. Three years ago my cat tried to catch them. Thought they were toys. Food. Made for him. I should come to understand this mindset in time. February hangs above me as a crib mobile. Taunts me with my faults. I’m swaddled beneath— unable to reach them with stubby arms. Cries escape through chapped lips but I know there is no one to cradle me here. My sins scratch at my throat. Is this what it feels like to suffocate? I think my lungs are collapsing. The weather is changing and it makes me anxious. Shallow breath and an overstimulated brain. These are the physicalities of my anxiety. My green bugs are congregating. Giving speeches and recounting the winter months they spent within my skull. I suppose it would be selfish to squash them beneath my fingers. They will climb the fish and stars above me in time. Watch over my decaying body as spring showers through my windows. I will not die this month. February held a gun to my head in my sleep. March stands silently in my room. She waits for my eyes to open. Unfastens my blanket and carries my bugs to the window to be set free. Hands me water for my throat scratched raw. I suppose this is relief.

— ODH