As a child I was given a yellow woven blanket,
held close at night to stop the tears,
with me in times of fear and sadness.
My parents didn’t know that I carried other emotions with me,
for so long they felt like bodyguards to the world.
Anxiety and worry that caused clenched jaws and indie movies in my mind to distract from the apocalypse outside my eyelids.
Binge eating that supported my escapes, animal instincts that take over and bring home shame and stretch marks I cannot face.
As I’ve gotten older my yellow blanket has shrunk,
now small enough for my clenched fists,
but the others expand yearly,
becoming too much to grasp.
They expand with my euphoria,
seeping unwanted like vines in all my crevices.
What do I do when I am merely a tangle?
Who am I without them?