Poem about manic thoughts

If I didn’t smoke

I’d be an anxious mess. 

These thoughts I get are crazy!

Really. 

Dirt is my number one worry, I’d say. 

I would have different slippers

Each for a different situation

(Avoids cross-contamination)

Additionally, scratches. 

I can’t eat from a dish with scratches on it. 

I don’t know what’s inside of them,

Maybe a huge scary lion. 

Also, is there mold in my walls?

But since I smoke, 

I just think

“Rachel, get over it. 

You’re too lazy for this shit.”

(i am really not a poet just wanted this somewhere ~( ˘▾˘~))