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Dec 2013
Every thread wound through this sweater traveling in different directions like the fibers of anxious thoughts dancing through the synapse in my mind.

I never felt anxiety like I felt the haunt of paranoia. I think the ghosts in the walls and the lurking shadows are just the memories of someone I once knew, but I swear you're there, I swear you're following me like something I'd like to forget.

Steam rises from my cup like a ghost, but I'm not sure if it's you or the forgotten versions of myself. I feel my heartbeat in my ears pounding through every vein in my body, causing my fingertips to pulse at every shaky thought.

What if it was you in the dark of the night? What if you were here like you once were? Would I drop my cup, or perhaps throw it, in a fit of fear. Or would I scream for you to leave, or perhaps for you to stay?

I swear I hear your restricted call "don't look back," but this is not a metaphor. I can't tell if you are trying to warn me through my dreams or announcing your arrival.

If the sounds in the walls never stop, will I learn claustrophobia in a form of everything that weighs me down and drowns me in a body of water that represents your eyes? You might was well be the rocks around my ankles; you stole the oxygen from my lungs but you forgot about the effect of loss of oxygen on the brain.

Every wall I ever built appears to fall down on top of me, but this is not opening my heart up. These walls and every brick are trapping me further under the weight of fear on my lips, every time I begin to speak, and the knot of helplessness in my throat begins to grow.

Now I'm not so sure if this weight is you, or just my walls you crumbled. Is this paranoia that follows me (I swear to God, it has to be you) or is it anxiety that locks me in a cage and keeps me up at night? Will I ever know the difference or are these all metaphors for a self-diagnosis?
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