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Coping
Fingertips
bounce
a centimeter up,
a centimeter down,
fast-motion blurs,
unconscious slips.
Inaudible taps
on my desktop,
craving to be heard,
rescued,
comforted.
Fingers
now tremble
a millimeter up,
a millimeter down,
hovering
in the air.
Salted,
heavy drops
land on the shiny
rings
that decorate
them.
[griiiiiiiinndd]
Dry,
open hands
turn damp
as fingers
curl under,
nails digging
into palm.
Anxiety
converts
[no formula]
into rage,
anxiety turns
deep red
into hot,
painful
anger.
Fists
[fly?]
throb,
eyes burn,
until realizing that
escaping
what is there,
what is real,
is not possible.
Fingertips
surrender,
and eyes close,
in hopes
that next time,
there will be
a follow-through.
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