We all own other people.
In parts.
We cut out the things we want with words and wear the pieces as badges
Medals.
Blood dripping sashes.
Words are knives and we ask for the cuts people may deign to give us
We want to be owned in those parts so we can own them in turn.
I wonder what pieces
I've let people take from me?

I grew up ignored.
Not neglected, never abused.
Ignored.
Blithely alone with people unawares of my existence besides them.
They spoke about me as though I were not there, so I learned not to be.
I spoke myself through days that stretched into years.
"Don't draw attention.
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Don't be the interesting one.
They aren't interested in you, anyway."
Siblings stole the spotlight and I let them.
'Being ignored is like being abused, kind of. '
No, not really.
Being ignored is being silent and knowing what happens even though no one else does.
Being the ignored one means that you don't have pressure to achieve; you don't exist.
You are no better
No worse
Nothing at all.
You are nothing at all.
And eventually,
You learn to appreciate that nothing-at-all feeling.
It's freeing.
You don't have to worry about things like looks because you don't get seen.
Scars are ignored because they exist on you.
Making friends, though, is hard.
"How do you share like interests when you've never been important to have any at all?"
I'd ask.
"Figure it out."
I would tell myself.
"You have before."
Take on the skins of people around you.
Be who they want you to be.
Be replaceable in that way that makes you needed.
Simpler than it sounds, really.
Being nothing is so freeing
So calming
So boring
So cold.
And empty.
Like the nothing-at-all you are.

Saccharine sweet, you make my teeth hurt.
Open your mouth wider, look up and kiss the sky.
Listen to me, for you I won't be curt.
Close your eyes and lose it, don't be scared, say goodbye.
Cut me deeper, I like the pain.
Sometimes I like doing it alone.
Look at the clouds, drown me with rain.
It's so much better now you're home.
Bend it, break it, make me cry.
Twisting, losing, falling hard.
Breaking, losing, where am I?
*I thought I knew, it's now all charred.

I wander when I'm alone.
I walk for as long as I can.
I've gone miles before
Gotten lost, even.
I get lost a lot.
I feel better when I'm lost.
Losing myself physically helps me feel less bad
About losing myself mentally.
You know?
I like storms for that reason.
I can walk out in a thunderstorm and be lost to the world for a while.
And drown in the rain.
And it's wonderful.
People never suited me, not really.
I love my friends.
My family is important to me.
I'm sure I could become dependent of one person's fancy if I chose to.
But wind
And water
And ice
And loss
And the smell of the sea beating the rocks into sand.
Those are the things I need more.
So I wander.
I wander for miles sometimes.
I get lost a lot.
It makes me feel better.
You know?

I woke to darkness, and I ran.
And the sky didn't fall.
I looked to the sun, to the lights.
And the sun screamed that I was the dark.
And the sky didn't fall.
And I looked around myself, at the darkness.
And the darkness welcomed me home.
And the sky didn't fall.
And the sky didn't fall.

I want to let your fingers walk over my skin
See if they bleed on the broken pieces of my body
I want you to open old scars and snap bones unbroken before.
It turns me on to think you'll break my body like you broke my mind
It makes me hate you
It makes me want to ******* too.
I'd never let another person over me
But I want your hands under my skin.

Little lost lambs,
Come to me.
Bring salvation.
Sing to me your hymns,
Songs of pain and loss and death and ***,
Gathered through your sacrilegious lives.
Tell me the stories of your life,
All the wrongs you feel you've caused
The lies you've told
The lies you've kept.
Bring me your light,
The souls of wandering beasts inside you,
Burn my tired eyes.
Come to me.
Bring me your scars and fears and tell me your stories.
And then wander on.
I'll not tie you down.