high tide panic/ 61

I’m sick of my mind, sick of

its inability to let me live, sick of

the worry that envelopes it, the

panic that chains it, I’m sick 

of me, sick of dreaming of

cutting myself, sick of trying

to make myself smaller, sick

of shaking hands and a 

good for nothing body, I’m sick

of this life, it fits like a shirt 

that shrunk in the wash, which

is to say, I can’t fit into it 

without ripping it, and so I’m 

sick of it, sick of calling myself

a poet but being unable to 

write, sick of trying to be good

at things, and failing, I’m sick

of thinking so much. All I 

want is for my mind to fall silent,

for the incessant demons to 

cease their talk for a minute,

all I want is to be able to breathe

without feeling like I’m drowning.

All I want is to feel calm, instead

all I feel is high tide panic, all

I see are the waves, preparing

to overwhelm me.

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