Antsy

Antsy

I like the word antsy, to describe how I am feeling.
A hundred million ants, crawling up and down my arms.
With nowhere to go, and no place to be.
They can’t get off my arms,
nor escape my body,
but then neither can I.

Too many coffee cups,
and not enough movement.
Head pounding like a million, tiny bottles of cement,
rattling.
They can’t seem to break free either.
Tapped inside my mind.
It’s a hard place to get out of.

I feel like getting drunk, because I know that will cut down the walls;
shake up some cement.
Feel like running away, down the street until I see somebody I know,
ask them to Charlies.

I feel like messing things up with my boyfriend, just to get a rise.
To make things messy, to get some attention.

Some of the ants might fall off.

 

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