Amygdala

My little fluffy pet is Anxiety.
On my shoulder, it sits and watches,
Stares unblinking far into the distance.

Its sight is sharpened past all measure,
Its ears are vast and finely tuned,
Its sense of smell is flawless, keen.

If it should catch the scent of smoke
(And it perfectly well distinguishes
Comfort’s smoke from the smoke of fire)…

If it should see a branch’s shudder
(It won’t confuse: a bird has fluttered
Or a sniper has shifted slightly)…

And when the silence comes too suddenly
(Not alike are serene, placid calm
And the stillness that comes before impact)…

It will bite me right there in the throat.
Just to draw my attention, it bites me.
Tiny, needle-sharp teeth, oh so pointed.

Yes, I know: it bites me for a reason,
My little clever pet, my watchful one.
Carefully. Almost without pain.

And with dark eyes it watches me closely:
“You must guard all your dearest and loved ones,
You must guard all your precious, cherished ones.”

Gratefully I stroke the small pet,
Its fur, like a crimson-red flame,
Is weightless and smooth as pure silk.

Again and again my throat tightens.
Again and again, drops of blood on my skin.

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Thanks to Leah Borovoi for improving the text.