This is What Anxiety Feels Like

anxiety.jpg.653x0_q80_crop-smart

 

Left foot,

stomach,

throat,

head,

mouth,

tongue,

 

Left foot aches,

stomach curls,

throat closes,

head pounds,

mouth dry,

tongue heavy.

 

Left foot aches like grain of sand in shoe,

stomach curls like night after drinking,

throat closes with invisible fist squeezing,

head pounds with sledge hammer from the inside,

mouth dry as my pussy on a bad date,

tongue heavy with unreleased screams.

 

Ask me again what anxiety feels like.

 

Left foot aches like grain of sand in shoe that you can’t get out because it’s stuck inside your sock and you’re running errands and have just enough time to finish before they close, I mean who the fuck closes at 10pm in New York City?

Stomach curls like night after drinking long island ice teas because you don’t have much money and you know this will get you hammered quick and you want to feel that floating feeling fast because you want to forget the fact that you are out alone, again.

Throat closes with invisible fist squeezing so you can’t eat, or breathe or even swallow your own bitter saliva tasting of anger that you can’t cause a scene because it’s a good job and you have health insurance for the first time in five years and you’re sure you’ll need that cavity filled eventually and you don’t ever want to go back to that discount hack-job dentist that smells of garlic and knock-off Old Spice.

Head pounds with sledgehammer from the inside every time you replay the conversation in your head where he makes it about you and your uncontrollable sensitivity and besides he was just kidding and you can’t even take a joke, I mean what — the — fuck — is — wrong — with — you each pound hammers into your brain.

Mouth dry as my pussy on a bad date where he keeps talking about battleships during World War II as if you don’t have a Master’s degree in history, but hey, he’d know that if he had asked or read your profile at all and the whole time you already feel guilty that you won’t fuck him tonight even though he’s paying for dinner and you can’t even think of a good enough excuse to leave early and you keep thinking about these three hours you’ll never get back and how you just want to go home and eat Takis and watch House of Cards.

Tongue heavy with unreleased screams that are lodged in the chest and infect your heart with disgust like ketchup exploding in the bottom of your purse or vegetable rot juice in the bottom of the refrigerator drawer that you have to soak overnight to make clean again and yet you can’t release these screams because they will always be the ketchup stain at the bottom of your purse reminding you of how spineless you think you are.

 

Ask me again what anxiety feels like.

Well, like this, but much, much worse.

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