The Devastation of Anxiety

Life’s managed to get hard again. The etherealness has been drawn from my veins, and I’m heavy, drained, and unsteady again.

How can I drift through motions that impede me and strangle my breath? I’m not creative anymore; I’m tightly wound, on the edge of skin and severe. My thoughts are harsh and hurt my heart; I’m riddled with tensions, forced, by myself, to keep surviving.

Haven’t I survived enough? That’s why I’m lacklustre, it has to be, my strength has been deteriorated by life so far. I would implore for sanity and a sense of being centred but nothing good ever comes from begging. I will ride the waves, relax the jaw and unclasp my fists.

I’ve already come undone. I’m not afraid. I do long to be alone when I feel such erosions, but I’m surrounded by people at this point in my narrative and I cannot escape. How guarded do I have to be? To stay within my mind and not let the nerves fall out of my skull, onto my toast.

Life’s embarrassing. The moments I can’t share because of fear, because of apprehensions that make logical sense but make me seem insane. Even that sounds unreasonable, like a mad woman’s thoughts. Why can’t you enjoy the sea-water, the eighteen-thousand win, the jolt of a different surrounding? I’m painful, I’m obtrusive and insular. I make no sense. But it all seems normal to me.

I’ve been unwell for too long, I don’t know what it’s like to have enjoyed life and had positive experiences that lead oneself from A to B. It’s a catastrophe, my path, my past, the ever-present. I’m unheard, not understood, too dandy to be female. I’ve choked.

There’s no love in here, where my pulsating stress overbears my conscious. It’s all hate and anger and discontentment. I’ll always be that, it circulates my core, I’ve long accepted it. But what rage is delicate and endearing?

It would be heinous to exude that rage. So I keep it wrapped in glitter. The love’s extinct, or never even was.


First Published in TAT Poetry Magazine


Image attribution: Madison Manning