I write because when I get nervous, I stutter. Or overly excited.
Baby blues, what are we going to do with you?
I have a childhood friend who made my stomach churn.
“No one is going to hold your hand if it looks like that,” I remember the first time that you told me that. Eight years old, I had chewed my nail and picked the cuticle so badly I was bleeding. “I just need a bandaid,” half embarrassed, with zero understanding of how anxiety can manifest itself.