A mass of youth, writhing in the beat;
Air thick with spirit, hallucinogenic plumes
And recklessness.
You'll find me in the corner,
Nail-biting with dread;
The idea of ordinary interaction
Bubbling up anxiety bile,
Seizing up my throat,
Hijacking my words.
I want to burst into tears and evaporate,
leaving just the salt behind.
I am your
Buzzkill,
Stick-in-the-mud,
The one who
shits the fucking party.
The intense feeling of anxiety manifests into
Physical pain wrapped around my ribs.
I ache for
A tether to
A calm, an ease,
And to just
Get the fuck out of here.
YOU ARE READING
Post - it
Kısa HikayeRevelations, poems, short stories and three a.m monologues, all as tiny as a post-it
