In the Throes of Anxiety

Thu, 09/28/2017 - 13:44 -- rheinen

I'd grind a mirror to dust

with my bare hands

if it meant

I never had to look

at myself again.

 

I'd burn every book I own

into a useless pile of ash

if it meant

I never had to listen

to my thoughts again.

 

I'd scream as loud as I could

until nothing came out

if it meant

I never had to

speak again.

 

I'd even kill you

without a second thought

if it meant

I never had to

be myself again.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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