you and i could be in lovei hold hands with my anxietyas we stand on the train stationplatform. i long to bear witnessto the day when its touch burnslike fire, but that day is not today.i ride the train with my anxietyon my way to work. it hangs aboutthrough the day, pulling my hair,grinding my teeth. we ride home,hand in hand, heart ablaze.tonight, my anxiety takes advantageof me. it lays its hands on mein ways i have never been touched.and though i do not desire thesefeelings, they wash over me in wavesof wanting.my family asks where my rash came from,why i have sleepless eyes. my familyasks why i throw up at night. i wantto tell them that it's getting worse -the nights are longer, and my anxiety'shands hit harder.but i can't.i hold hands with my anxietyas we stand on the train stationplatform. it rears its ugly, yellowedface, as it knows i'm contemplatingjumping in front of the train.
sleeplessnesswhen i leave, i can still smell you onme, a musky, oceanic scent thatclings to me in this hurricaneand while i am homeless until ireturn to your arms, there's alwaysa period of anxiety, a pacing (if you will)i want you to mourn for me theway my father does, but you'venever loved someone with my kind of hurti want you to spend dreamlessnights the way i do, with ringsbeneath my eyes, wonderinghow love could ever lastbut i have come to know theemanation of despair as it barksat me like a dog that's seen another of its kind -and i miss you the way i miss myself -sometimes, or not at all.
dumb girli have swallowed a sea ofanxiety, brushed off mountainsof despair, and told the giantsof misery to kindly leave me be - i have fought the starving lionsof ache and agony.i have shot myself in the leg enoughtimes to know that it never doesany good, but never has the summer drowned me in sorrowto where i feel as if i have to press my thumbs to its neckand drown the summer itself.
wmci spend hours in the ER signing my life away, signing away intangible money for a few pills and an empty promise that maybe, maybe my psych will call me back before the beast rattles the bars of its cage, running it's fingers down my spinal chord.they call it mania.i call it hell.i used to take pictures of my depression because one can make things like sadness seem pretty at any angle, add a touch of sepia or black and white, or cross process. but images of mania are blurred, out of focus - nearly un-editable.i speak the language of pharmacists. fifteen times this night (oh, i've counted) they've asked mewhat are you on?what they do not explain is how medication works for six months, then leaves me despaired, heart tangled in a hopeless rhythm, crying without reason and desperate to spend every penny i have.i return late, skip two classes in the morning and the classes i do attend i sleep through with eyes wide, awake, for i am in a drug induced stupor. i laugh at