Anxiety is like
playing hide-and-seek
with ghosts

of the past,
and then some that you make up;
(all of them you made up)

like a child
playing indoors
what ought to be a
game for two, or three,
or more, requiring a
playground and grass —

but, here, there’s only the
constricted quarters
of your being.

Some days,
you can win
if you name the ghost:
take his name, the one
that means flowers like
lotuses or something,
and confront that
this is a game of finding
what doesn’t exist


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