His teeth are worn down from constant grinding
like those Ancient Egyptian mummies whose dental damage indicates lots of
gritty grains of sand got baked into their bread.
His sweet little sister Anxiety curls up in armchairs in the
fetal position. Sweet
baby, she whispers when prompted,
but Agitation is leg--
He often feels more like a wild animal than a human, locked in
fight-or-flight mode by
dogged predator pursuit.
He’s hairy and unkempt, arching his back like a
bristling, threatened Halloween cat.
He reads Where the Wild Things Are and
empathizes with the monsters
gnashing their terrible teeth.
His bushy unibrow desperately needs to be plucked into
Sometimes when he lashes out verbally, you mistake him for Anger. (Yeah, you.)
But the gnarly truth is, he’s jealous of Anger.
He’s envious of how Anger’s energy has
somewhere to go,
a target to bullseye.
Poor Agitation folds in on himself, crumpled and edgy as a discarded ball of tinfoil.