I.

I’m twelve and I’m scared.

My grandpa’s dead.

My mom’s crying a lot.

My dad isn’t home.

I can’t breathe

and my chest

…I did this.

I’m the one

who’s upsetting

EVERYONE.

II.

I’m fourteen and crying.

My mom’s angry.

My dad’s angry.

My sisters are angry.

Even I’m angry.

I’m angry at myself.

I upset everyone

and I have been.

This grip on my chest

and this voice in my head

WON’T STOP.

III.

I’m seventeen and sighing.

My mom’s medicated.

My dad doesn’t drink.

My boyfriend loves me.

I’m not angry.

I’m sedated.

I’m scared and

my past is healing.

I am loved.

I am not my

ILLNESS.

IV.

I’m seventeen and writing.

I’m medicated.

I’m full of life

and full of future.

Little orange bottles

saved me from

harmful scars

and heartless stares.

I am loved.

I am not

ANXIETY