Like a wound scabbing over
The persistent itch of anxiety gets to me
And I itch
I scratch more than I should

I cry
For the scabby wound peels back and suddenly,
Instead of one anxious thought
There’s an entire monologue in my mind

It explains my inadequacy, my imperfections, and my paranoia
With a sharp precision that strikes me to my core
Sometimes I can put a bandaid on them
To cover them up and get them out of sight

With fun times and great conversation
Yet the bandaid always comes off
Especially when I’m alone
Then the wounds become more than a metaphor