On some days, my anxiety gently crawls into my bed and whispers “good morning”,
a warning bell for my fragile feet
bargaining with the floor.
On some days,
I sleep with it,
poured into the
marrow of my bones.
It’s no longer tricked into sleeping under my bed,
it keeps climbing,
till it’s one with the voices in my head.
On some days,
I chase the spotlight,
perfect my pauses,
stick notes on my fingernails,
rehearse my lines.
On other days,
the flickering light bulb in my room is an unfriendly reminder of one sad face in the audience
2 years ago.
My anxiety is my middle-aged neighbour
with unpredictable working hours,
he may sleep in the middle of
and wakeup with the sun
It’s the TV remote I carefully hide from my annoying sibling a million times,
a full proof affair,
only to be found under my pillow covers,
while I was trying to conceal it
better than before.
It’s the periphery to every thought,
the messy margin notes
of every notebook.
It’s the lover
I have bitched about to all my girlfriends,
I swear I’m convinced,
“I deserve so much better” every time,
Only to fall back into the arms of,
in the day.
It’s my only familiar suffering.
My anxiety makes mental notes
of all autosuggestions for fear of missing out on it’s own perfection,
but in incomprehensible codes,
so it can continue to worry over
trying to understand something
it created on it’s own.
My anxiety is the quick rainbow glance,
scolding me for not arriving on time
to dance in the rain,
warning me to keep standing
in the same place,
waiting for the next arrival.
My anxiety is the place I sit at,
holding the globe in my hand,
wanting to go places.
It’s the place I go to,
wishing for nothing but
to get back home.
My anxiety is the light,
my eyes will never be ready for.
My anxiety is the hiding place I need to hide from.
My anxiety doesn’t rest in massage parlours or in my lover’s arms,
It gently crawls from his wrists to his receding hairline,
When he is tired of how my heart beats itself
against his chest each time
he grabs my breasts.
I think he thinks I’m too much.
I think he thinks I’ll never be enough.
I cannot talk my anxiety out of things
I’ve been talking everyone else out of.
I think this poem is too long.
I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.
My lover doesn’t understand.