Anxiety Is A Ghost

My anxiety is a ghost

A dead thing following me around,

Poking my insides

It taps the back of my skull,

Seeping in my memories

It makes me feel hot and heavy, then cold and small

It’s quiet and roaring at the same time

It reminds me that I’m alive with its pulses, then wishes me dead forever

It says my name then grasps my throat

It advises me of its presence while making me feel so alone

I hope one day it will cross to the other side

But for now I’ll hold my breath, cross my heart and greet it with a good morning

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