He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.

She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.

Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.

There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."

The pain
It comes and goes
One day it’s there
The next it’s gone

One day you’re good
The next you’re not
You can’t press “mute”
Do what you want

I woke up from a nightmare
I could not stand to keep
to myself

you were stretched across the couch
coffee going cold on the table
a half finished cigarette
still burning

you wrapped me up
in kind words that
I could not bare
to hear

whispered into my ear
"one day we will go wandering
and this tiny house will overspill
with dreams'

you are not your memories, darling
you are not the bad things
that have been done to you
you are a fierce flame
that warms my heart

forget them, my love
they are nothing
and you, and you
are everything

I'm losing my mind;
not even slowly,
almost like
An onslaught of insanity.
Peeling away at the façade
of a body grossly overrun.
Melancholic.

I dreamed of home last night.
I wish I could tell you of a place so overflowing
with love and happiness
that even you, a complete stranger,
would yearn to experience it.
But, I can't.
It was never a place but a feeling
that resided only within the corners
of my own sick mind.
My home is an Epitaph
written on the decaying walls
of a shattered psyche,
in memoriam of something long past.

Few words

Hurt worse

Be they used

Be they not

Few words

Hurt

either way.