Sweaty palms, iced fingertips,
Blood, hot and thick sludging through your veins,
Coating you in a thick layer of unmoving rust.
Within the bad neighborhood of your mind.
Constantly looking around you.
Armed only with your car key.
The 9 and the 1 pre dialed,
The looming shadow mocking the sunny day ahead of you.
Repetitive glances at the clock.
Fingers tapping instinctively to a song you don’t know.
And therefore dominating.
They point a finger at you, crushing your bones into a fine powder,
Thinning your muscles to string,
Molding you into whatever they want.
Rolling you into a ball like a piece of malleable clay,
Readying you for what’s to follow.
You start shaking,
Kind of feeling.
A weight that you drag behind you, kicking and screaming.
Look down at your hands blistered, bloody, and raw,
From pulling on the rope that you’ve tied to it.
People say “I’m nervous”
Like it’s a bad thing.
A thing they need to fix.
A problem that needs to be solved.
Nerves are the last step off the edge.
The moment before you speak.
The enticing “You can do it” just before you do.
Being nervous is to your mind,
As the wings are to a bird.
Lifting you, pushing you forward, allowing you
To be free.
They are your strength,
Nerves inclose you,
But they inclose you inside a womb like bubble
Coaxing you into quiet.
Safe in anticipation.
Nerves corner you,
But they corner you and shove you into a glass box
A sheet over the top,
Keeping you hidden.
Waiting for the moment to unveil you,
But only you have the power to pull the cord.
Surrender your heart.
Embrace your nerves.