There is Greek word for koumpounophobia, That means I'm not lonely. which implies I am not insane, That means nothing as I am standing.
In a clothes shop encircled with cardigans And my throat tightens like a fist. When I tell people, they laugh.
buttons? Really? As if fear honors logic, as thoughphobias request permission, as though my mind isn't screaming DANGER at these little, smooth discs the way yours yells at spiders.
It began with one shirt. Then distribute: plastic ones, wooden ones, those shell buttons found on pricey jackets like little spying eyes.
The small holes The injustice The way they feel under fingers, foreign, frigid, and too much.
My therapist inquires what they represent: connection, control, things disintegrating?
But that's not how this operates fear isn't parable. I am dating a man who only wears t-shirts.
He neither asks. I don't offer explanation. We have constructed a life on zippers and Velcro.
On all the ways to fix items that do not include my specific anxiety. Some worries you overcome.
Some you merely grow around keeping distance permitting their preservation.