Infestation.

Anxiety’s an infestation of the mind, it lays its eggs under my skin, securing a foundation for the home where it will rear its kin.

It is the black widow of doubt, and simultaneously its web; the venom in her sac, and yet the prey within her net.

Untherapeutic thoughts crawl like millipedes, racing in Olympic circuits across my chest as I concede defeat.

It is a caterpillar spinning its cocoon inside the fragile forests of my overripe emotions—

threatening transformation, but promising collapse.

It is the voice that sounds like mine but speaks in sabotage.

The hand that grips my throat and calls it caution.

The fire alarm that rings in empty buildings. But I am learning—

not every thought is truth.

Not every fear is prophecy.

Not every storm requires surrender.

Sometimes survival is simply sitting still while your mind invents new ways to destroy you— and choosing not to believe it.

Sometimes healing is not silencing the noise, but recognizing that you are not the one making it.