Letter #17

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Dear Anxiety,

How can you make such a mess out of me, sometimes in no visible way? Someone looking at me wouldn't be able to see the war raging on inside of me. I've gotten so good at hiding you. Aside from the slight tremble of my hands -that could be mistaken as the jittery after-effects of a lot of caffeine after a night without sleep- and maybe the vaguely desperate look in my eyes, no one could know, that you're here at all. It's almost like the whole troubles of the world reside in my chest and there's no space left for anything, but mostly, for breath. My lungs are filled with concrete. My heart brims with electricity. My mind is either completely vacant, or in total shambles. I am nothing and everything all at once. I can't let you do this to me. I just can't.



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