Break free, 

I tell myself 

as I wake up in the morning. 

Break free, 

I tell myself 

as I am eating lunch. 

Break free, 

I tell myself 

as I am cleaning up after dinner. 

Tomorrow, 

I tell myself 

as I fall back into sleep. 

But I know 

tomorrow will be the same, 

for it has been since I moved in. 

I was ready, 

full of energy and life. 

Ready for my new chapter to begin. 

New town, new home, new everything. 

It was bright and hopeful, 

but then the whispers started. 

Quite at first, 

rare at first. 

Just enough to create doubt. 

Then louder, 

then more often, 

then more and more and more 

and precise, 

personal, 

painful. 

Never ending. 

The whispers became loud conversations 

that mingled with mocking laughter 

that sneered at my attempts to ignore. 

Festering. 

Corrupting. 

Eating my very heart and soul and will. 

Making my self become a hollow shell. 

Break free, 

the only resistance left, 

that one sentence I repeat, 

though I know I cannot. 

For the house is locked with iron bolts 

and the key is hanging from the chandelier 

far above and out of reach. 

And the windows are made of glass that won't break 

no matter what I throw, 

no matter how hard a blow. 

And my screams aren't heard 

as the house swallows them whole, 

rejoicing in the satiating meal. 

Give up, 

the walls are telling me. 

I will, 

I agree. 

I am done, 

I admit. 

You won, 

I concede. 

I settle in the darkest corner, 

from which I'll never leave. 

In this house I'll remain, 

in this house I'll ebb away. 

In this house called Anxiety 

standing on Depression road 

I'll slowly fade away.