House Fly

I deplore the word anxiety

But I want to say it with conviction,

Belt until I’m heard.

So I do, and now I hate the sound of my voice.

No matter the word,

It will fall under the umbrella of why

I’m not good enough.

For me, it means I hide from my mind sometimes,

No amount of expression can truly quell the simple fact

that I am indeed Anxious.

I will write it down.

Come up with a way to show, and not tell –

Possibly tolerate this version of expression.

But all of the metaphors have dried up.

Every last one of us is anxious.

All caged, imposters.

We’re all flies repeatedly thumping into windows,

Peering into the other side, seeing a reflection of ourselves we don’t believe in.

Most of all, we can’t find the crack left open for us to come in with the wind.

Only until we do, and then we’re left feeling silly.

With no answers for when we find ourselves back outside.