Poetry & Short Stories
Where the Monsters Live.
My anxiety took my hand lovingly and led me in slow, small steps back from the door, away from where ‘The Outside’ is.
Where the monsters live.
Where I would surely have died if my anxiety hadn’t saved me and put me under this blanket.
Under my bed.
In my room.
And while I lay on the floorboards crying and struggling to breathe because the air has become too thick to swallow my anxiety reminds me of how I will die.
Inevitably.
Because soon the phone will ring and the air will become fire and ‘The Outside’ will come in and my lungs will implode.
My anxiety strokes my hair and speaks softly to me of how it feels when your lungs implode.
Wipes my tears from my face.
Warns me of how I shall dehydrate if I don’t stop crying.
I can’t stop crying.
And the air is fire.
And surely I’m dying.
Surely I am dying.
Anxiety hugs me tightly and lays down with me on the floorboards.
Under this blanket.
Under my bed.
In my room.
And tells me, as it holds me lovingly and kisses my forehead..
You are dying.
