a queasy sensation eggs my limbs into shuddering
left anointed by the sweat that pools in my chest 
and reminds me of the anvil that sits there;
heavy-limbed and hard of hearing, there must be something
that will carve away the diseased edges of this anxiety,
left rumbling in the crevasses of evernothing.
shaken and chased to the ends of the underworld,
where there was no shelter, it willed itself into being.
and so, I too must be the underworld:
a willful being, creator of sanctuaries that only some will see
are meant to be
a bigger part
of me.