Anxiety Is Dead, And I have Killed Her

I look over my shoulder, pushing the back door open as she creeps through the front door.
I popped a pill.
She’s got a knife, cutting through thin, not being able to take criticism, skin.
A soft breeze slammed the door behind her.
She panics, searching for the lock.
We stare each other down, not knowing whether we should f… or fight.
I break the knife free from her timid grip, slicing the air, swimming for her ponytail.

She lies, sprawled out on kitchen the floor;
Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth.
She gives me a cocky wink and a confident smile.
See you next time, she said before closing her eyes for the night.

She’s a ghost of her former self.

(© 2020 by AC)

(draft)

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