Read My Lips
Anxiety slaps me in the face,
then says sorry.
He swirls his fingernails deep
within my wounds,
then proceeds to ask how
he can mend them.
He stays up all night whispering
cold, empty words into my ear,
with the simple motive
of seeing how long it will take
for me to scream.
At night when he jumps on my chest,
my whole heart does summersaults
inside my body.
I wish he realized
I'm not a trampoline.
Each word pounds
into my chest, indenting
it even deeper.
I often tell him he should pursue another career-
that I don't care for the pictures he paints in my head.
But that's another thing about anxiety,
he doesn't listen.
He is not the friend that hugs
me when I'm down and strokes
my hair to tell me I am beautiful.
Instead he unwinds my progress
and taints the image reflecting
back at me.
His honesty turns to lies
and I often forget what the difference is.
I wish I could get him to leave,
but he has made my body his home.