Skin on fingers cut down to the quick
Calluses formed for so long that the
Nerve endings that were and should be there are long long long gone
The tear of the skin as the anxiety ebbs and flows and wanes and waxes in a never ending pulsating mess from my rib cage spiraling outward

I sometimes feel like a personal hurricane
And excuse my cliche
But the vortex of overwhelming paranoia and nausea and dread
Are the things most frequently busting out of my chest
From a heart long out of rhythm
From a heart longing to be dead

And yet I’ve gotten everything I worked towards for so long
Yet my life is a train wreck
I live like a squatter
I have three friends
And I am always
Alone.

And just like those fingers
The discoloration from stress and anxiety
The bags under my eyes lengthen and grow to match the shadows my mind is now full of and I don’t remember ever being this tired and I do remember being less happy but sometimes it’s hard to separate the two

Am I doing any good?
Is anything ever going my way?