Stabbed with the Anxiety Blade

It starts as a whisper,

a tick in the ribs,

a ghost with a needle

that lives where I live.

Just one little poke,

just one little doubt,

just one “what if everything’s falling apart?”

But anxiety don’t tap…

it drives it in.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A blade with no handle,

I can’t pull it free,

it twists when I breathe,

it feeds off of me.

It says,

“Stay alert.”

It says,

“Don’t you rest.”

It says,

“If you relax, then you fail every test.”

So I’m pacing in circles,

my mind in a cage,

getting carved into pieces

by an invisible blade.

Stab—

in my chest when I’m quiet,

Stab—

in my throat when I speak,

Stab—

in my head when I’m trying

to just get one damn moment of peace.

How much is too much?

Tell me—

how much blood can a mind even spill

before silence replaces the scream and the will?

Because I’m leaking thoughts,

dripping fear,

every second feels like

“the end is near.”

And nobody sees it,

no crimson, no stain,

just me smiling softly

while I’m screaming in pain.

It stabs when I wake,

it stabs when I sleep,

it counts every heartbeat

then steals it from me.

No bandage for panic,

no cast for the dread,

just a war in my body

and a war in my head.

And I’m tired—

so fucking tired—

of being the battlefield

and the fire.

Because anxiety don’t stop

when you beg it to cease,

it sharpens itself

on your need for relief.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until “too much”

ain’t a line anymore…

…it’s a grave.

And I’m laying inside it,

still breathing,

still trying,

still whispering softly—

“Please…

just…

stop…

stabbing.”