It's not a sting of fear, nor the nail-biting tension of worry.
It's the sharpness in-between.
An ache in quiet moments,
A stress unheard of at sixteen.
It's found in chest pains that leave me paralysed,
In migraines that last days.
I can push it back, for a moment,
But still it always stays.
It finds its way home, like the cold creeps in Winter.
Into soft blankets and candlelit rooms,
It lingers, slips under every door,
And taints the bed sheets, like smoke fumes.
It's not a warming crimson, but a bright white,
That makes my head hurt.
It's a destroyer of opportunists,
And a breeder of introverts.
It is parasitic.
But it is not a definition,
Nor a dangerous disease.
It does not rule me.
By E.H.
