An elephant 
sits 
upon my chest.
She is a beast 
of my own design.
She feeds on the fruit
that falls from the branches 
of anxiety
rooted deeply
in an overactive imagination.
She is not actually there,
but her weight
and her presence 
are unbearably real.
She limits  
movement 
and 
ability to
breathe.
Her name
is well known.
It is 
Worry,
or perhaps,
Regret.
- bshivers

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