Dear anxiety,

You’re not as strong now as you used to be.

Your hair is gray, tangled in knots

like you do to my thoughts,

and your skin isn’t looking too well.

I’m not sure what happened to the swell

of your cheek.

Looks deflated just a bit, not to call you weak,

but you’ve looked better, old friend.

And don’t pretend to be offended,

like you haven’t said worse about me

when you’re almost scott free,

and then I remember

that you’ll play with me ‘til I lose my temper

and I go sit down.

There’s nobody around

but me and you

and I’ll have to make do

‘til you’re gone

and I swore I would push on

this time.  

Because all’s fair in love and war but the organized crime,

isn’t it?

And it’s hard to see when you’re stuck in a pit

and there’s no foreseeable means to leave,

but it’s impossible to perceive

the problem when the problem is you.

And in you

and in you

and in you

in an endless spiral you’ll seemingly never get through.

 

Dear anxiety,

I used to pray to get you out of me.

But the moment I realized you were ingrained

in the temporal folds of my own brain,

I stopped to breathe

until I could halt the chattering of my teeth.

I've stopped looking at my face in windows

because I know what power you have on what it shows.

And I picture you getting smaller

infinitely spinning into yourself until your color

no longer tints my own

and I have shown myself

that I am more

than you ever bargained for.  

 

Dear anxiety,

you haven't see the last of me.

I'm done letting you see me cry;

now I've got some things I need to rectify...