my own imagination
is a fickle, fickle place

sometimes a comfort

sometimes an anxiety-ridden nightmare
full of all the fuel i put into it
over years and decades of
self-hatred
and self-loathing
and self-harming
and imploding
and all i thought i’d want to accomplish
and all i still want to do
but am frozen to
the spot when i try to try

maybe
as with the imagination
i just need to keep on
gently
trying
and exploring
till i find a neat little [abandoned] space
and sit inside it
for a while