And in the times where I believed I have forgotten who I am,
I remember who it is that I want to be.
Days layer themselves upon my conscience, unaware
that the doubt that has survived through my blood stream
year, after year, after year still prevails.

Remind me again, of the self-destructive path I lead
in times of past where I was left in my own
deception, as you stood on the other side of your
own self built picket lines.

A daughter who never earned self-respect even
when she did everything she was told just by looking
at the eyes of judgment. Understanding that the
love would not be there otherwise.

Hell with insurance, and pieces of paper given
value that try to constrict my choices, in who I want
to be as a person. Yet these are the borders I have
endured as a child, taught as a consumer without limits,
from parents who thought they knew what was best.

So we try to remember the future by forgetting
our problems, running away as our blood
runs deeper.
We are just bones, with flesh.

How we have this knowledge is a
secret we die for.