Anxiety is like a person, quite attractive, seductive at times. Enticing like the lady you always watched from afar but never exchanged handshakes with.
Mine has traits and quirks too, eyes as blue as the Atlantic, skin as brown as the sunbaked earth. White shirt, see through at times, and the resting bitch face.
Anxiety is like a bully kid at the school, calls you names and laughs at the way you walk. Would never really talk to you, but pop out of nowhere when you tumble down the stairs, just to laugh at your clumsiness.
Or maybe, anxiety is like the feeling you get while tumbling down the stairs in the first place, only it lasts longer, creating pangs of churning tornadoes in the stomach and comes on a regular basis like the annoying visitor who never makes you laugh, but cracks indecent jokes anyway.
Anxiety is like a friend, who helps you decide on what and what not to wear. Snorts out morning milkshakes laughing like a maniac when you think of trying something new, anxiety is judgemental and makes you hate yourself on every Friday.
Anxiety is like insomnia, stays awake with you for months. Takes late night strolls with you as you sleep walk through the oceans of imaginary lovers’ tears and spit lewd remarks on the bright colours on the phone screens, you tell her that you don’t have anyone to stay awake for, anxiety gives you the look and sucker punch you in the stomach.
Anxiety is like a knife, stabs you every time you’re on the brink of having a panic attack. Carves questions on your arms and keeps whispering lies in the ears; keeps telling you that it’s not real, that you’re not here, that you will not be here again.
Anxiety is like a bad lover, tosses you on the bed at nights so violently that you shatter.
Bites you on the neck, pulls your hair, hits you in the rib cage, kisses you on the wrong bones, gets jealous, keeps everyone else away, builds a wall around and bangs on them like a demon possessed until the entire world crumbles, tells you all the time that no one will ever love you like she does. Anxiety leaves you gasping, writhing in pain- she calls it making love.
Anxiety is like me, stares back from the mirror, fakes smiles and leaves me so broken, the kind of broken which will never be beautiful. Anxiety is not cute, it only celebrates a never-ending funeral in your head and does not allow anyone to love me for a lifetime.
Anxiety is the sister of depression who has been asking me to kill myself since the age of seven. Anxiety makes me create storms and poetry and stories and reasons, but it asks me to remain silent when someone asks me about it, so all I do is dance when she is not around.
Anxiety is like…