Useless, Worthless, Anxious.

Useless, worthless, anxious.

Everything I am is

useless, worthless, anxious.

Three words that mean nothing,

and everything,

at the same exact time.

Last choice, 

me.

It’s always been that way. 

No one wants me, 

I can’t do anything right.

It’s pretty much impossible, 

and it makes me,

Useless.

I can never be enough.

I’m nothing but the shirt in the back of a closet 

that went out of style eight months ago.

A pathetic piece of fabric that would 

never be touched again.

Maybe at one point I was valued,

but now i’m just,

Useless. 

Worthless.

“Oh I can do it! 

She’ll get scared at the slightest noise.”

“She shouldn’t do that,

she might overwhelm herself again.”

“Maybe it’s not the right thing for her to do…

You know, 

with her anxiety and all.” 

The things said about me

are almost never out of sympathy; 

it’s always just because I’m,

Useless.

Worthless. 

Anxious. 

Useless, worthless, anxious,

all in the shape of a human.

In every scrape and bruise,

uselessness thrives.

Every curve and freckle,

explains every reason for worthlessness.

My brain and eyes, 

Scream for help from the anxiousness.

Useless, worthless, anxious,

all in the shape of me. 

Useless, worthless, anxious.

Except I’m not

useless, worthless, anxious.

Maybe I am the last choice,

but they hardly regret choosing me.

And maybe I can’t do anything right,

but I try my best to.

So maybe, i’m not so 

Useless

I don’t have to be enough.

Old shirts go to Goodwill 

and new people fix them up.

I’m not pathetic anymore,

I’m valuable again.

I’m not 

Useless

Worthless

Yes, I am anxious. 

I know I can’t do much about that.

But I can do things too, 

Sure, my anxiety is a burden to me,

but that doesn’t have to mean I'm a burden to you.

I am not defined by my disorder,

I am not defined as

Useless

Worthless

Anxious

Useless, worthless, anxious,

Three words that mean something,

only if you let them mean everything.