when the strain of too damn much erupts
my clammy palms stretch the skin at my temples
reeling back the piercing ache that threatens to overtake me.
can a brain swell from the stress of unfinished business?
like keeping pressure on a wound, all slippery and pulsing,
my hands constrict and push, fumbling desperately at a broken dam;
a life awash in worry, wasting away in the wonder of what should have been,
too preoccupied to entertain the what if.
hope is a commodity too valuable for the angst of regret.