Look At Me

Under the sharp gaze of a familiar stranger
I’m losing all sense of composure.
My coffee cup is shaking
in my clammy hands
and I’m questioning every inhale.
I’m worried it’s obvious how I’m desperately trying
not to meet this gaze.
These nerves are a wool blanket
on a hot summer night.
If interrogated on the stand
I’d surely be indicted, despite my innocence.
There’s no reason for such anxiety
but I can’t reason with
my neurons, my atria, or my ventricles.

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