Old friend

Anxiety is brutal.

A friend that never leaves –

He brings that tingling down my spine,

that shiver in the small of my back sensation

of something or someone

always watching,

always hovering,

just out of sight.

And I am too afraid to turn and look

in case it is not my old friend,

Anxiety,

but a new demon, with claws drawn,

ready to strike.

 

But Anxiety! I know him well,

the feel of his cold, slimy hands

jumbling my intestines –

making me nauseous.

I feel his whisper on the back

of my neck,

hairs stand on end.

His creeping words follow me

around my house, from room

to room he hisses in every

corner. The same words.

A terrible notion that

fear is coming,

fear is coming,

fear is coming.

 

I opened my eyes this morning,

and before even the dull winter light

had bled through my window,

before I heard that morning hum

of traffic, buses, life and noise,

I knew:

My old friend,

Anxiety,

that hellish bastard,

He was back.

 

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