Fine.

Fine as the infinite grains of sand,

tread on by carefree souls.

Waves rolling in, lapping over them,

pulling each out to sea.

Fine as a crack in a tea cup,

a blemish on the delicate china.

Slowly branching out, and up,

threatening to spill it’s contents.

Fine as the decadent chocolate,

wrapped in golden foil.

Held captive in a warm dark mouth,

melting, vanishing, consumed.

Fine as the threads of silk,

weaved together on a pillow.

Losing its sheen, tattered,

worn and stained with tears.

Fine as the tip of the needle,

gently piercing the tender skin.

Injecting it’s magic potion,

leaving beautiful bruises behind.

Fine as the aged Cabernet,

grapes tenderly crushed, fermented.

Soothing tannins being sipped,

intoxicating, inebriating, sedating.

I am Fine.

It always happened at night, which was 

'irritating'

'exhausting'

'embarrassing'

So I kept them to myself after a while.

I thought that I was dying, my

hypochondria and paranoia and

N-e-r-v-o-s-a, technical terms on Web M.D.

that only trickled down into my conclusion that

I would be dead by morning.

My heart was beating too fast, too hard

and my body ached like a 100-year-old man,

not like a scared adolescent girl who

couldn't control her breathing,

chest going up down up down

until it would finally flood with something and 

s t o p  

w o r k i n g.

I would apologize to the thin air for things that I had done that day, 

that week,

things I couldn't even control:

I could have beaten Atlas with the weight on my shoulders.

My possessions would have been divvied up equally amongst my family members, so

when they finally found my corpse laying in bed

they would have a clear cut way to take apart my room. 

I made sure my whimpering

wheezing

whining

and watery eyes

were quiet enough so that the rest of my house could sleep.

All of that worrying must have scared them to death.