I'm so anxious I can't
tell if I'm choking on
the story in my head
or if my stomach has
decided to pass
along its nausea to
my heart.
chronic anxiety.
episodic depression.
these words are
meaningless to me.
they're emptier than
the drugs I take for
relief, stretch longer
than the distance
between people's
words and their
actions, spin faster
than narcissists retell
their stories to suit
themselves.
to have future vision
is to be mentally
unwell, is to name the
beast before we may
be ready to face it, is
to be in such
proximity to silence
you practice the art
of not assigning
meaning or hope,
alike.
I'm so anxious I can't
tell the difference
between a blessing
and a curse, because
either violate my
consent in a world
filled with sharp
edges that cross my
soft boundaries while
demanding unending
vulnerability.
