supine thoughts

Anxiety

It's not a sting of fear,
nor nail-biting worry.
It's the sharpness in-between.
An ache in quiet moments,
stress unheard of at eighteen.
Found in chest pains that paralyse,
In migraines that last days.
I can push it back, for a moment,
But still it always stays.
It finds its way home,
like the cold creeps in, in Winter.
Into soft blankets and candlelit rooms, it lingers.
Slips under every door, taints the bed sheets,
like smoke fumes.
It's not a warning crimson,
but a white so bright it hurts.
A destroyer of opportunities,
and breeder of introverts.
It is parasitic.
But,
it is not a definition.
Nor a dangerous disease.

It does not rule me.