My ex-boyfriend gave me
lessons on anxiety:
Seven days a week,
140 beats a minute.
I turned into a pro guesser.
Did he like our dinner?
Did he want hot tea
or a cold beer?
I turned into a double-checker.
Did we unplug the heater?
Did he really mean, “Let’s
get out of here?”
Even walking in the heels
I loved was as dangerous
as climbing the Everest
in his eyes.
Even the uphill ride
to my grandma’s hometown
was not worth the risk
or his time.
When he met me,
my hands didn’t shake one bit.
But they soon mimicked the quake
of his voice and his lips.
When he left me,
his hands didn’t shake one bit.
They were already resting
on somebody else’s hips.