Anxiety Poetry

Slow Healer by Elizabeth Wittenberg

I used to pick at my scabs and point to the scars and say that I’m a slow healer, rub dirt not for closure, my intention infection, pity a chance for attention, I would relish in messes and avoid any lava by piling my pain on the floor, claim calm came from chaos, what’s already broken can’t possibly break anymore –

but now my laundry is folded in drawers, overloaded, and I’ve even swept up some dust

living takes maintenance but I meet it with ease, dash of joy and a sprinkle of trust

I clean cuts and I bandage and I rest and I wait, healing’s itchy and slow for us all

and silently, slowly, self-stitching can start, every scab needn’t become a scar

Elizabeth Wittenberg grew up in Chicago, but now calls New Orleans home. She is a lifelong writer and lover of words and stories. She prefers to be outdoors. Her favorite sound is laughter.