If my anxiety was a person they’d lock me in a box. They would ship me far, far away. The box would say pathetic. No not fragile or handle with care, like the bracelet around my wrist tells everybody. It says pathetic. But maybe then The shippers would take pity on me and place me at the front door of who I want to become instead of tossing me in with all the other boxes of people with no address to guide them to their better life. It’s a sad place of broken dreams, slit wrists, and blind eyes. This is the room in which depression builds greater. The amount of I tears cried will cause my box to sog and break just enough for me to see out of it. I want to reach my hand through the crack and break free. But they are here. They are retaping every crack and slit made by bloody fingers of the hopeless, trapped like I am. They are all crying the same tears I do. Yet it’s quiet. We have all trained our selves to suffer in a still state, so they won’t yell at us. Call us worthless. Call us attention seekers. So here we stay in the lost and found until someone will come up to our box and ask “what’s wrong?” That will be the day we are resurrected, saved. So till then we wait.