inner collision

crumpled at day’s end.
i sit down to dinner –
bones stacking up into
a neat pile of sticks within
i could spin webs
around all of the
misfortunes sticking
out – thorns in the side of
my day, i could pin up
words people have said –
turn them, overanalyze them
every which way, to avoid
and assume, every breath or
action was carefully woven
by a loom to create the finished
product – constructed to
haunt my mind – with anxiety
calling shot gun, leaving
peace behind

__
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: disastrous 

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