Housemates.
Anxiety. And me.
Housemates in my head.
He showed up uninvited,
never met him before.
He doesn’t talk, he screeches.
He doesn’t eat, he retches.
He doesn’t help, he leeches.
He doesn’t shine, he etches.
I called the cops.
He came back.
I changed the locks.
He slipped in the window.
I’ll kill him with kindness.
Told him everything was fine.
He spat in my coffee.
I revealed my secrets.
He shot a video and shared it.
Anxiety is an asshole.
I painted a line down the middle of my head.
Gave him the good half
with the large window.
Paid all the bills.
He won’t stay on his side.
Steals my stuff,
eats my food.
makes noise when I’m trying to sleep.
(This most often of all.)
I’ll kill him by any means.
Drowned myself in booze.
He sang like Dean Martin.
Took meds.
He invited friends to get high off them.
I put a bear trap in the tub.
He stopped bathing.
I put poison in my leftovers.
He asked for seconds.
My head is an unlivable space.
And even if he moves out,
I cannot.
© 2024 Christopher M. Morlock
