Member Poem

If my anxiety were a person, she’d be pretty, yeah, pretty tired,
With dark circles that engulf her eyes from her thoughts being most active
From when she tries to close them.
Addicted to the pain, the ink on her skin brings comforting reminders of
Inspirational words and old memories.
Within her walls are no regular organs, but instead she is filled with crater-sized holes that only contain Words that a careless, poisonous tongue left in their wake.
Her body, embroidered with crescent shaped cuts, and the inside of her mouth raw from chewing.
Her knees would bounce anytime she sat down as if her body is screaming at her; telling her to run.
But her mind would also be telling her to stay put, who knows what lies in wait beyond those doors
Mixed messages.

If my anxiety were a person, she’d be pretty.
She’d almost constantly be smiling, ignoring the screaming
Voices in her head that beckon her in every experience.
She’d laugh at the people who say she needs help or tell
Her that her brain is broken.
She'd be considered a "day-dreamer" because of the absent minded staring out the window
She'd pour out her feelings from her fingertips and people would just call it creative.
She’d put makeup over her dark circles, and put on the prettiest waterproof
Mascara she could afford. So, when her mind's caged voices break free,
She’ll be the only one who will notice.