Sad Stories.

Flat nails scratch at my face.
My skin is on fire.
There are pins poking every inch of me encouraging the flames.

Vomit runs down my chin.
My eyes puff up from tears and nervous rubbing.
My body shakes and I tremble as my teeth chatter.

I’m not cold.
I’m on fire.

Don’t let this define you.
Give up. Stop living.

Don’t let this hinder you.
No one understands. No one supports you.

Remember all that their is to live for.
You’re such a failure.

Remember how strong you are.
You’re so weak. Your life will never amount to a thing.

I say, “anxiety doesn’t define me.”

But sometimes I dread…
What if it does.

What if I’m nothing more than an empty shell?
What if I’m just another sad story of a person who should have asked for help?

Do they think it’s that easy?
Just asking for help?

Why can’t I be fixed?
Why can’t I be cured?
Why am I so fucked up?

What did I do that was so wrong to think this way?

I don’t want anxiety to control me.

But it does every single day.

Breathe like this.
Take a step back.
Remember you are stronger than this.
Hold your food down.
Drink more water.
You forgot your medicine.
You should probably talk about your feelings.
Take risks.
Ease your heart.

I don’t know what to feel.
I don’t know what to think.

I don’t want anxiety to control me.

I don’t want to be another sad story.


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