I dropped my pencil
it fell under the table.
I left it there.
I desperately wanted to continue to write
-but-
anxiety told me no.
Told me it was impossible.
There were too many people in the room
bending down would look awkward
disturb the person next to you
make you a pitiful inconvenience--
so I left it there.
I couldn't even pick it up when I left.
Because Anxiety was right,
it was an impossible task.

I am a disorder;
one made up of
irrational fears
of time
and
forever being alone.
I am a disorder;
with blinding insecurities
that question
my own reflection
and
who could ever love me.
I am a disorder;
where my ribs
bend with worry,
my lungs burst
and
I can no longer breathe.
*I am a disorder;
and my disorder is me.

My head hasn't stopped throbbing
Because of the past hour of crying