I don’t like fidget spinners.
I see every third person carry it around
Flicking it intricately,
Rapidly, and my eyes follow
The blinding, circular movement.

It rotates. Slowly at first. Fiercely after.
Why does it have only 3 edges?
I don’t like odd numbers.
It bothers me. The spinning makes my head hurt.
It’s too fast. It’s not even.
Stop shoving it under my nose.
It doesn’t cure me.

My anxiety still follows me around.
Like a stalker that gained speed
And is exactly one footprint behind me.

It chokes me at 3 pm when I’m trying to jump past racing cars
Honking at me cuz I’m standing in the middle of the street
My feet seeping into the concrete.

It calls me subtly like a cross lover
When I’m in the arms of someone I love
And he kisses my lips when I’m not looking.

The interpretation of gestures
Are subjective.

Give me a smile
And on most days, I’ll appreciate
The crinkle in your eyes
And mock the yellow of your teeth

But momentarily, my mind reminds me
Of the smile of the man who pinned me
And shoved his fist in between
Of the curvy parting of my lips.
And your smile is returned by my shriek.

If only anxiety could be cured
With facebook statuses and mindless rantings
Instead of half lit cigarettes, hours of frantic telephone conversations to therapists who’ve gotten sick of me
Weeping in front of them
At the 7 pm sessions every Thursday
That my anxiety makes me attend
12 minutes before the clock tells me it’s time
To walk in and confide secrets of my mind
To the listening voice of an absolute stranger
Who wouldn’t linger on me
40 seconds after the clock strikes 8 PM.

But therapy is healthy.
It’s the medications that terrify me.
I drown them in a shot glass of rum
One pill for every haunting memory
It numbs me out.
Knocks me out cold.
Physically, I cannot move.
I cannot breathe.
Maybe this is a better alternative
Than five rapid breaths every 20 seconds
But my mind functions
As if a blanket has been spread over
My emotions are raw
But I process them slowly.

I believe I will always be an escapist?
This worries me more.
Am I healing or am I running?
Am I grieving or am I accepting?
Am I crazy or is it just human tendency
To lament the loss of my stability?


The Blue Room, Pablo Picasso (1901)


Written by Meghna Prakash


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