Weeds

Paranoia is a seed of doubt
That grows in vines,
Planted in the back
Of the fields of my brain.
And it spreads its disease,
It’s tentacles swarming,
Nestling itself in the folds.
And the knuckles clench harder
As I struggle for air,
Not noticing how far they’ve grown,
Or how deeply these roots go.
And if I could yank it from its source
I could be free.
I could watch it wither and die.
But I don’t know if I should pull it
Or if I need you to.