I'm a pacer.
It gets me places.
It gets me out of my head.

I walk
I turn
I walk some more,
And I calm down from what was said.

Ze said it's self soothing.
I say it's just anxiety.

I say it's torture because I have to choose,
Do I let my feet ache,
Or my head.

There's a virus in this school called hatred,
It finds your happiness and takes it.
It writhes in your pocket,
Sounds much like gossip,
And leaves your heart bare and naked.

Let me be miserable.

I see my nails scratch my wrist bare,
Exposing my veins and arteries,
My skin peels back, splits open.

I see nothing abnormal.

Do I have to conquer this demon inside me?
Or can I let him flourish?

Do I have to restrict my god given right of self pleasure,
For the benefit of us both?

I want to let him roar, stroke his mane and feed him.

But his stomach will sit empty for now.

A heart could tell a lot of it could talk,
But my heartbeat could tell you just as much.
It tells me that I have anxiety,
And that I do not know how to calm down.

My lungs could tell a lot if they could talk.
I hear the air but not the flesh itself,
I hear the pain, the scare, the ache inside,
I hear the lack of any laugh at all.

My brain could tell a lot if it could talk.
"My mom left me when I was ten years old,"
"My dad is an alcoholic *******,"
"I have a future unlike both of them."

I can't catch my breath.
Every other minute it just gets deeper, faster.
This is anxiety. This is hell.
The protruding image of destroying myself is circulating
And impeding my actions on Earth.
I can't focus.
I can't breathe.
I can't sleep.
I stood in the cold for twenty minutes just to try.

This isn't fair. I'm sorry.
I'm not okay.
I know it isn't fair.