Anxiedyzed Paranoia
Next to my anxiety,
a pot boils, uncovered
splashing salty water,
on my clean stove.
In my pot, nothingness
only what I thought:
anxiedyzed paranoia.
Infection grows, slowly
to the point, of my bones,
disintegrating, painlessly.
It’s all confusion, misunderstanding
but if it was you wallowing in the salt,
you’d think thrice about the next words
that exit your swollen mouth.
Blistered and black
my pot boils on.
