Anxiety Doesn’t Care About Stories

Grasping at straws
broken plastic
cutting
the divinating creases
of my palm.

Tell me
live long
and may your future
be devoid
of vomit.

Crack open
my skull,
and peel back
the membrane
crushing me.

I’m seeing.
Hallucinating.
What’s real?
You are real,
but am I?

Nails,
through my ears
Temples,
where God waits
on my death.

No, wake up,
I command myself
to be happy.
To be free
behind bars.

Nausea.
Flesh taking
control.
Drag you down
into water.

Now,
Write.