Nobody likes me.
And so a panic attack is drummed
up from this insistent
worry, enveloped in fear,
that I have no friends.
I make lists. These names
of every person I
consider a friend.
Categorized in outlines,
all my life’s connections
stack like a tiered cake
frosted in gaslit fear.
With years of collegiate
practice, my inner
bulimic tries to dazedly
forge ahead, indulging of
the impulse to minimize,
“oh but she doesn’t
actually like me” or “he
probably thinks I’m
stupid”.
At least through lists I
can see names on paper.
More than one. Trusting
the memory my fingers
held in their dance with
the pen – ink is true.
And know that
the intrusive thought was
wrong once again.
by Clementine Yost ©
