Dear Anxiety

Dear anxiety -

There's so much to tell you

and this isn't me in a postcard

writing after months of no word

but the isolation

is just the same.

I have so much to tell you

about how you make me feel,

how I boil,

how I'm not only nervous but angry

that you do this to me,

unprovoked.

You're a shock in my brain,

a probe sharpened for me,

and I will always ask why

it is that you do

all that you do

with no effort at all

but a lifetime of misery

for me.

It's a talent,

honest,

the way you consume my every thought

and make me gulp and stumble

when I'm just on my phone,

my thumbs shakily hovering

to send a simple text, a question,

to someone I've known for so long,

but cannot trust

because you convince me that they'll hate me.

I'm just as afraid

that this car will crash

either by a wandering squirrel

or the person to my left.

So why not just tell the driver?

If you're concerned about their driving.

I ask myself this

but you always have an answer

and you're always right.

I'm silent most of the time

because I wonder about the possibilities -

the words, the embarrassment -

that would follow me like you do now,

for an indiscernible amount of time.

So maybe one day

I'll pay for the cure.

I'll spend money on something I can't control.

And maybe you'll start to cost me too much,

so I'll oblige and be your subject

and at first it's perfectly fine when I enjoy Emotion's return

but you only make a show

so that you see me disappointed.

I think you're a glutton; an insecure thing,

I'll cry and I'll yell because I hate you so much

that I want you gone, not just now but forever,

and I'll resent you for hours on end.

But I only sound crazy.

You're nothing outside -

you're a fuzzy gray thought

that happy people ponder.

And maybe I'll admit once

that I'd miss having you around.

I'd never let you hear me say it -

I hardly allow myself to think it.

But I suppose I can stop

and think about your presence

and challenge myself to stand up to you.

I shouldn't really blame you

for something you don't control.

Because who knows who controls it?

I know you're just doing your job.

I know you're just a part of my brain

wanting to function

like any other part of my brain.

But you can take a vacation -

I promise.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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