I’ve never touched you in a menacing way physically;
no intentional bruises or cuts to be found on the surface,
but I beat you with my words
and carve deep wounds with my thoughts almost daily.
We meet face-to-face each morning
and I pick you apart until your shoulders slump
and your head hangs low.
I gift you with grotesque descriptors and
bequeath to you heinous attributes.
And even still, I know I am wrong.
You do so many wonderful things,
things I see every day and
things that go unseen by all.
You convert oxygen into carbon dioxide
and can occasionally puzzle out complicated problems;
you practice abilities and talents again and again
until they become second nature
and you execute them almost expertly.
More importantly, you keep me alive.
And I am grateful,
but the Depression and Anxiety,
they love to lie.
They tell me you’re ugly
and that you’re unworthy
of love and friendship.
They stand on each shoulder,
whispering into my ears
about how you’re a fake and a phony,
and you’ll never be good enough. . .
. . . and I believe them in spite of myself.