The Salesman with Anxiety

They do not open the door unless they want something and they hardly want anything to do with me.

They have perfect bodies, perfect homes, perfect friends.

They are framed pictures behind windows that I am not allowed to look at for too long.

I become such a mess around everyone.

They view what I have as beautiful and useful

but then they listen to me speak and they realize it is ugly.

Bad. Bad. Bad person. Bad product.

Bad salesman. Bad anxiety.

Selling things and having anxiety doesn't work together unless the merchandise is drugs.

Selling things and having anxiety doesn’t work unless the salesman wants to be in constant pain and suffering.

They do not open the door unless they want something, and they hardly want anything,

which is good because I am too small too ugly too bad to be spoken to.

I chose this job. I chose this because I want to be useful in some way.

I want to be able to say I talked to people every day and I was wanted and I was okay.

But I wasn’t. I was self-harming in such a pathetic, pitiful system.

I was killing my happiness, self-esteem, and time.

I am a salesman with anxiety, and my life is such an ironic waste.

I walk in their neighborhoods to sell tea machines when my tongue still has a bitter coffee taste on it.

They send me to knock on doors when they don't even know what is behind it.

I will not reinforce fear by choosing safety. I will look fear in the eyes to punish myself for being scared in the first place.

They do not open the door unless they want something. They do not want me.