The voices in my head are like a broken family
Torn and distraught, quiet and kept to themselves
Never sharing because sharing is the fuel to the fire that burns endlessly
The sweet, pitiful, and sympathetic mother I never had, looking for a way to make things better when in reality there never was. She is empathy, and hope. The mean anguishing, older brother with trauma buried so deep into his soul that the only way he can Express it is through absurdities. He is dysmorphia and depression. The father so rarely entering my mind he is barely a figure. Like a quiet, and timid counselor ready to mentor me through my life. He is what I never had. Then there is me, the lost child who cannot turn a head or move a muscle without feeling worthless. Who is curious about everything yet so terrified to know the answer. So many dark corners and empty rooms yet to be discovered in the floor of my mind. I am anxiety, and I am my own identity crisis.