Old Habits

My thumbnail, a victim of stress and of time,

now jagged and raw, a nervous old rhyme.

I gnaw at its edge like a child at a toy,

a desperate habit that steals from my joy.

In meetings, I fidget, my thoughts race and clash,

a sea of anxiety, a turbulent thrash.

With each painful bite, I’m pulled back to days,

when worry was simple, and innocence stayed.

Each jagged piece, a memory in flight,

of battles unseen, played out in the night.