My anxiety is a subscription I never wanted
but it gets delivered to me anyway. It rings at my door
and persists that I answer even if I don’t want it.
It crawls it’s way into my home and
sits on my couch like an unsought guest.
It uses my tv, it picks what I watch. It cooks in
my kitchen and eats my food, without offering any to me.
My anxiety makes a mess of the place. It pries into my bedroom,
my most personal places, and drags out the memories from
years ago that I love to forget. It uses my shower, empties my
shampoo, and cleans out my body wash, all the while forgetting
to brush it’s teeth. My anxiety goes into my parents room and
finds the papers from my last appointment, the one that made it worse.
It gets angrier. It destroys my couch, my bed,
all of the places I sought comfort in.
Finally, when it’s rampage is done, it leaves, forcing me
to continue my day, attempting to ignore the glooming memory of
my anxiety’s last visit.