Whispers in the wind
Carry what you don’t dare to say.
On ‘tempesty’ days,
That wind brushes past striped curtains,
A draft, it lands in my home.  
It carries a guise of unwelcome
But really,
Really, it invites me to listen.
Words are swallowed by this stubborn air.
But what it wants to be known is known.
I know.

I hate your phrases of,
'Life is a marathon' and
'Shoot for the stars'.
You tell me to imagine that life is
This, fantasy.
So what 'inspiration' am I left with when
the last page of the story book
Has been turned.
When I'm told that the stars
are actually out of reach,
When I tell you that I’m out of breath.

How can I begin to make my way in this world,
When you keep trying to change it?

Perfection -
excellence, refinement, bliss
- Ism,  
obsession, fault, disappointment.

If you were mine,
I would own you.
Control you. 

You couldn’t hurt or heckle me,
I wouldn’t allow it.
You would only love me.
Endless, unwavering love.

So you must not be mine.

Self imposed blocks to
Self preserve to
Self help to
Self love.

What if I said that my image of life is a marathon,  
But that I've always struggled with stamina.

What if I told you I feel out of breath,
Stitch in my side,
Thirst, begging for a rest.

What if I told you I hated running.
That it hurt my knees,
Made my ankles ache.

It feels like life is running and running,
Changing lanes,
Cutting me off,
And I can’t keep up in this
Marathon.

My mind stopped,
It stopped for just a moment,
And I realised I had been on autopilot.