Anna

She is a shadowy wisp in my lungs,
Moving throughout my breathing being,
Cautious, quick, and simple.
There is no use in trying to force her down-
Away.
She sticks to tissues and begs to be born again.
And in my weakness I will oblige.

I am no stronger than that ephemeral wisp.
She pushes against my insides,
While I push against her with lungs at full capacity.
And we do no more than children
Breathing upon opposite sides of the same pane of glass,
Writing secret messages with our fingers that only appear
Backwards and wrong.

In my braver moments, she retreats to my stomach
Where my mouthfuls of words stopper up and bubble,
In my moments of weakness, I feel her circling
In the back of my throat like an eel, a gag.
And once again, I am a shy child reluctant to speak.
I draw pictures with the hands in my lap,
Though no one sees.

No one ever sees.