the cobra

                  w

                      r

                        a

                     p

                 s

                    its tail around my neck

its name is

                     anxiety.

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I lay on a hard mattress curled in the foetal position,

wrapped in a chrysalis of darkness.

A fancy metaphor could not explain the meaning of life,

it had simply become irrelevant.

I had become so skinny that my skin was pulled

guitar string taut over aching bones,

that doctors had threatened to hospitalise me.

But now, allergic to life, my skin peeled at the thought of being.

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