twenty-two, anxious.

you are not the trembling of limbs,
the rapid firing of neurons preparing
to save your life.
you are not the ghost he left behind
after drawing out your pulse
without the touch of fingertips.
at twenty-two,
you are living with the walking dead,
floating through lost freeways
as if introductions were unnecessary;
as if you've been flirting with death
your whole life -
& maybe you have.
you've been hoarding each arrow
that cupid fired in your back,
in the chamber of your heart,
& you wonder why your fist is bigger
than any attempts to break through
your wrought-iron gates.