She's not there in Out of the mirror

My body quivers looking outside and into the gray-ish Monday afternoon for reasons only my half-addled mind knows deep within itself. I recede into it without really touching, just sort of leaning onto whatever soft spot I can find there that poses no immediate threat. Keys, shoes, jacket, no, the other jacket, saddle cover, cards, ok, I’m going out. Now. What are you afraid of? Why?
I hate to think of the world as a place full of irritations and unpleasant things, but I think my brain thinks this anyway with no input from me. Or maybe my body does; I’m no longer sure there’s a definite line between those two. Everything melts within itself and leaves me encapsuled in a soft, mushy, clammy substance of angst, nerves and at last, non-compliance. A self-preservating anger saves me time and time again. I go out and I refuse to give in, even if it means I’m not completely there.