Hypochondria

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With recoil, with ripple:
The gentle spasms of those imagined burdens
Come without cue.
We wake to them in the dead of the night —
Not a loud tremor but a silent shell shock.

Within us, a stygian tempest
Breathes a cadence only audible when
We press our ear over the cerebellum door.

Purse our lips, frown, and start a chain reaction.
Warped imagery simply follows command.
What worries us reveals part of us.
At fear we are responsive; At pain we are obedient…
Our seams are showing.