Where is the divide between what we owe people and what we owe ourselves?
My conscience say no,
my beliefs say yes,
my mouth says no,
you say yes.
My body is undecided.
I listen to the people in my mind and they tell me everything I already know...
Because despite years of living with myself I still am unsure and hesitant.
Don't misunderstand me;
the affection I hold for you is far too great for me to contain,
but it is also not enough to make this easy for me.
The women inside me are bickering
and loving
and protective
and supportive.
But I don't know how to encompass them all.
They are erratic and silent
and when they look through my eyes, all that people see is the confusion
and the fear
Sometimes they mistake it for bordem and I don't know why.
How can anyone be bored with all these footsteps walking through my memories?
Through my thoughts,
through my fears;
the emotions sticking like sap to their barefoot soles.
I am no more than these whispers and screams inside my mind,
but these girls and women are strong
and vulnerable
and ready to give themselves up while holding their own forms with white knuckles and bleeding crescent moons dug into purple veined skin.
The cages that we build for ourselves are made of fear.
The cage I have constructed for myself grows smaller and larger with every shuddering breath I take,
it's form is about as consistent as my wavering beliefs and foregoing decisions.
My shaking hands trace unfamiliar planes and I don't want to close my eyes just yet.
The room is dark
There is no ticking clock;
the silence breathes life into those whispers on the other side of my ear drums,
they bang tunes upon the stretched skin and howl at the moon like men not yet born anew.
The cage collapses inwards
as the darkness under my eyes drags towards my feet,
the tiredness leaking into my bones through my porous skin.

We swore to ourselves
That we were our own heartache
Our own architect,
Author,
Artist,
But the story we wrote for ourselves
Didn't reflect our freedom
Our freedom that we enjoyed in our eyes

And we collected our souvenirs
Our bruises and broken bones
Our cuts we washed in salt
So that their comfort could never leave us
Like an over protective mother
Whose presence we would start to be repulsed by
Once we realised we were not children anymore.
And we would scrub at the scars
With sandpaper
And try to burn them from our skin
With nail varnish and our smouldering cigarette ends.

We're all writers that don't know where our pen will take us,
Artists who's thoughts and emotions flow through our paintbrush,
A wall painted black, then white, then green, then multi-coloured,
It's changing,
Everything's changing,
Who are we fooling? Why pretend?
None of us are the same as we once were,
It's the demons inside of us that grow and mutate,
They puncture holes in our hearts and rip out our souls,
The deeper we sink, the more broken we see ourselves,
And the hate that we feel for our imperfections run harsh cuts into our skin,
Shivers across the lines of fields shaded red,
It's hard to keep the screams inside,
The rain behind our eyes remind me of shadows,
Pumping blood like butterflies in tunnels of glass,
The railroads to our hearts are barred with electrified wire,
Spinning webs of glutinous barriers,
Fleeting highs when fingertips touch love and trust,
Cut loose, like the strings of a puppet,
Trying to crawl back up the ladder of shattered china,
Back to that splintered paradise.

I woke in the tired bitter morning,
Lying in dew laden grass,
Muscles aching,
Throat dry,
And lips cracked,
We're beautiful but unseen,
Beating out our own sanity,
The walls we built are sculpted in ice,
Ice castles, buried. Blurry.
Clutching at anything our pale, spidery hands can grasp,
Flushed free of hope,
Chalky eyelashes,
Fluttering,
Sending shifts of snowflakes to the ground,
Like raining infinity,
*******.
Because it makes you feel lost of horror,
It's a mess, because we're curled up in confusion,
Skin like rain,
A disaster in hibernation,
I swear we are not lost,
Please, we are not lost.
Just wondering
Wondering and wandering