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.
anisha writes 