Peoms For Those Who Hate This Planet

Dear, Depression

Dear, depression.
When are you going to stop
pulling on my hair at night?
I wish you wouldn't whisper in my ear
words like,
“You're nothing.”
“Stop trying.”
“You're a mess.”
I didn't expect you to stay
this long and miss when you weren't here.
The problem is that I don't know
how to get rid of you.

Dear, Anxiety.
Please get your hands off me for once
and stop laughing at me everytime
I stand in front of a crowd.
When I eat in front of anyone
I feel your hands around my neck,
choking me
and making my throat tight.
When I show off anything I'm proud of,
I have to tell people
“It's not that cool”
I just want you to disappear forever.
The problem is I don't know
how to get rid of you.

Dear, Insecurity.
I understand you're trying to help,
But nothing is worse than looking
at my friends and family
and seeing a mirror looking back at me.
A magic one that points out everything bad about what I'm wearing.
I want you to stop showing me that mirror.
My hair isn't what's wrong with me.
My body isn't what's wrong with me.
My face isn't what's wrong with me.
You are.
The problem is I don't know
how to get rid of you.

I wish I knew how to get rid of you.