My stomach is a gymnast.

It flips and twists to uncomfortable positions,

tangling my insides,

to a bunch of anxious knots.

Ones that even my boy scout brother,

could not create,

from years of training with rope.

As my brain slams its fists,

onto an

internal panic button,

I curl up, tightening my grip around the mess,

desperately trying,

to loosen my stumbling insides.

My stomach stays persistent.

Flinching at every,

“What if” 

And,

“I can’t” 

That reels through my brain

You have no future.

You're going to fail.

Panic.

Panic.

Panic. 

...

My grip loosens.

I let the tangle

rise to my throat,

And tie my tongue.

The ability to protest

gone.

I surrender myself to the mess,

and accept

that I am made of knots.