Me and Mine

Me and my anxiety are this close, son!

We been intimate more closely than my right hand knows the ridges of my penis.

We have shared secrets that no lover of mine
No mother of mine
Even knows.

We are so close, we finish each other's ...
whisky.

My anxiety is like that old friend you lost touch with for years but meet again and it seems like time stood still. 
We run through all the old dreadful tropes of loss and despair, reels of film play through me like an endless marathon of failure.

My anxiety is like a memory mattress, she hugs me in all the wrong places, bringing back memories of all the stressful thoughts I thought I had misplaced or forgotten. 
As a bonus, she comes with a weighted blanket, reminding me that I am not alone; I have her, and that is enough.

My anxiety is a boomer or at least considers herself one. 
She is easily triggered and doesn't have any concept of nuance. 
I mean, she insists that there is no difference between good news and bad news. 
As long as my heart beats faster, then I asked for it.

My anxiety is all I have left. 
When the sounds of people talking in the room fade away and my mind begins to spiral down the dark creepy hallways of past traumas, I see her clearly. 
Skin like cocaine, arms beckoning like in a weird movie where black people are forced to dance like white people at a rave and do jazz fingers. 
She knows that I will come to her because she knows me. 

I am hers and she is mine.

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