or easy.
There are days where I dress it up.
Make it look all pretty.
Put it in a dress,
slap some makeup on it
and say
“Look at my anxiety!
Isn’t she beautiful?”
And there are some days where
I hate it.
Everything about it.
It’s yellow skin,
it’s stringy hair,
it’s black eyes
and all I want to do
is eradicate it from this world.
Stab a knife through its heart.
Realize it’s actually mine
and now I lay dead
at the bottom of a dark river bank
never to return to this
rotating ball of rock and
gas and
land
where everything is dark and grey
and I just lay inside it
like sitting on a wet park bench
on a cold winter day.
That uncomfortable, skin crawling feeling
lurking all throughout my body
that I treat terribly
because I don’t have the energy to care.
I just want to be able to talk to other
like my professor can,
continue conversations that are in their last breath.
Pull the words I want to say
from the depths of my brain,
dust them off,
and hand them out
like flyers in the street.
Instead I sit there, silent,
like a statue on its last breath.
Constantly waiting.
Wondering when the skin crawling,
vomit inducing,
stomach pulverizing feeling
will be over.
