Most days

my mind feels like

the inside of a pumpkin—

tangled, stringy, goopy,

I wish I could just carve myself 

from the inside out,

scraping out every last

anxious ruminating cyclical thought,

but anxiety is the Minotaur

and the labyrinth that imprisons it,

it is the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh

Hydra head

when you thought 

it was finally dead.