You said I was always rough around the edges,
clouds unfurling away from me like new dimensions,
billowing like smoke.
You made me work on keeping myself
so completely inside the lines.
A decade later, I am wounded.
Contained and restricted -
kept behind a new plethora of barriers I blame
everybody else for,
when it's nobody's fault but my own.
Each and every time the rare little islands of lucidity visit me,
the realisation sets back in and
I am left reeling.
I am left surveying the devastation
from a throne made of ruin
that crumbles further each day, a threat
I keep ignoring
like old enemies
and court dates
and recommended medication.
Who builds them, these walls?
Who constructs them by hand,
with no voice or fight, an automatic labour
Deft hands work tirelessly
to fight a warped brain that cries loudly.
Each brick is so carefully moulded and formed
with thought and care and precision.
Each new layer is so strategically placed.
Barbed wire and "Danger!" signs make such pretty additions
but there is nothing beautiful about self-destruction,
the defeat that comes from your own success and
now they can't be broken down.
The only thing broken is my head, my body, my mind, my--
I am so broken, I am so broken.
That's all that exists, the only constant, the singularity to always be counted on,
when my mind creates new realities and I drown
in the confusion; when I struggle to understand,
when I fight to cling to a belief, I can always believe in that.
I think I missed the necessary transition from imaginary friends
and wild stories,
fairy tales and nightmares,
to a sombre reality and they gave way instead
to hallucinations and delusions,
insidious and dangerous and harmful and all-consuming.
Maybe if I had learned to speak the words,
to articulate so perfectly what crashes around inside these walls,
inside this head,
behind this fucking skull that's so locked away,
then I could have learned to want to save myself.
But I never could
and never can.
That's why this has to happen in the way that it will
I won't tell you I'm sorry because I don't think I'll make it through that saga
not another time.
Death makes emptiness and voids of the messes we used to be,
but farewells leave little vortices in the hearts of those that once held us.