Emotional Hoarder
She’s still a long way away from here,
Even though I’m holding her hand,
She’s still running fast, alone in her head,
Even though, together, we stand,
And she stares through the things that she could’ve seen,
Blind to the world she’d have known,
Blind to the happy and vibrant and free,
Instead, in her mind all alone,
She lives with her phobia, her P.T.S.D.,
She lives with her panic disorder,
She lives with every form of unease,
She’s a nervous wreck sort of a hoarder,
But, she manages, with wine, her sweats and her dizzy,
She manages the pain in her chest,
She manages, with a pack of smokes every day,
And her mind runs away when depressed.
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