The hands around my neck
Grip me tightly with a refusal to release
Pleading to callus littered hands
Pleading to a more callous owner
But when I look to my neck
To see these vicious hands
I only find
My own

I'm not very good at anything
Though I am a perfectionist
Finding myself below the best
In everything I do
I tell myself I don't need the satisfaction of Others
And that is the most substantial lie
I have ever told

I've never loved
And I don't think I ever will
Too afraid to share my feelings
Even to myself

I think my pen
is better suited
to long strokes
to graceful arcs
to ink that bleeds across the page
than the shorter marks I make
when I am short with you

I think I love the stars so much
because they remind me
how small I am
and how weakly I shine

from the stories we read
we're always told
the villian is the one who does wrong
but who gets to decide
what is wrong and what is right?

Why should your morals be the best
Why should your morals matter more
Why are your morals
the ones that
matter?