In the Throes of Anxiety
I'd grind a mirror to dust
with my bare hands
if it meant
I never had to look
at myself again.
I'd burn every book I own
into a useless pile of ash
if it meant
I never had to listen
to my thoughts again.
I'd scream as loud as I could
until nothing came out
if it meant
I never had to
speak again.
I'd even kill you
without a second thought
if it meant
I never had to
be myself again.
This poem is about:
Me