A familiar worry gnaws at my gut

although I cannot name its source.

That nauseating heave of guilt and fever

will not be neglected, demands my attention

immediately.

But I continue to ignore it.

 

The grind of panic flows up my spine

as I struggle to keep my eyes aligned

with the page.

A rushing head and heart distract me

but my pencil lead snaps and so does my psyche.

Crushing my skin between my teeth,

the taste of blood is an anchor for me.

 

I must relearn to breathe.

 

It is sick but true, the pain blinds

the cyclical terror of my state of mind.

A moment of peace while under attack.

I remind myself to take   d   e   e   p   breaths.

As mama said, “you are never alone”

still I shake in the corner from a fear unknown.

 

I have changed, I know I have.

The world is no longer a vibrant place.

Laughter is forced and smiles displaced

as I am.

A spectator in my body, watching as life turns mundane

becoming a shell of the soul I once had

and never will have again.

 

Why is it I feel this way?

I list it out as mama had taught me

but nothing makes sense.

I’m more than sad, I am defeated

by an invisible illness improperly treated.

Then entered my mind a thought so clear:

maybe the world would be better if I wasn’t here.