They are jitters,
bugs crawling beneath my skin,
Leaving a tickle under there that doesnt make me laugh, it makes me uncomfortable and it spreads through my body.
My mind a toxic waste land spinning out tales of misery and what ifs,
Telling me that sleep doesn't exist in its world.
Anxiety isnt exciting, it doesnt always give me butterflies, usually it gives me moths that skitter and jump and leave their disturbing dust everywhere;
Pounding relentlessly into my vital organs and trying to climb my throat.
Blocking the only exit "help" can escape from.
Sometimes its knawing at me from the inside out begging me to tear my skin off.
Mostly its misdirected anger, fear and a crying fit I can't take back.
When its here I'm afraid of what may happen
But when its gone im terrified of when it will be back.
And it will be back.
its only a matter of time before a tangled mess of jitter bugs are nesting in my mind Once again.
