An Open Letter to Angst

Dear Angst:
This is a break-up letter.
I'm just writing to let you know that our little off-again-but-mostly-on
constant codependent excuse for a relationship is through.
I'm over you and your late-night shaking shtick.
But in that defiant adolescent way
where I'm not so over you as to not potentially benefit
from an angry poem or two.
Here's the deal:
I'm a 17.5-year-old American female,
 meaning I have an average of 60.3 years left,
which is not long enough to be some tautological panic receptor
tuned to some white noise anxiety station.

I'm playing with the dial.

Finding a place where there's airspace enough
for me to breathe freely.
I'm taking all the time I need
for flower-picking, poem-plucking,
absent-minded humming, hand-holding
and other general happiness-seeking activities.

I'm rewriting the script and putting some balance back into it,
remembering that homework is meant to be educational- not just stressful!-
and that reading books is a pretty nice way to spend time.

So angst,
next time you come knocking on my door
looking for some middle-of-the night
shit to stir,
I'm hoping you'll find me asleep.

Sincerely,
Me







P.S.
 Um... hey. One last thing.
Thanks, y'know... for helping me write this poem.
Come to think of it...
are you free next Thursday?
I've got a slam coming up...