I hate it here,
where chaos is too much,
much too present,
I want to disappear,
behind curtains of hair
or anything else to
hide my descend,
there is something that
needs to be understood;
I don't deal well with
too-much-ness,
Anxiety has its own smell,
it resides in the comfort of my hood,
and, when they look at me
as if their eyes can undress,
I slip a false smile on my lips,
while my soul's opposition begs to yell.