I am my own worst enemy.
       I know my weaknesses.
       I know how to tear myself down,
       Leave myself hopeless,
       Confused, betrayed.
It’s funny how I think I'm only
       Looking out for myself,
       When I'm really looking
       For how to make myself fall.
I cannot hide from myself.
       I am always lurking,
       Waiting for a sign of weakness,
       Predicting the next move,
       Begging to pounce.
I am addicted to self-destruction.
       I **** myself
       And it kills me
       To know that it’s all my fault
       Yet I'm still breathing.
It makes no sense.
It’s not logical.
        It’s not pleasant,
        But maybe just maybe
        If I can survive myself,
I can survive anything.

when all i want is to be free
im trapped
behind a suffocating layer of myself
when all i want is to taste
i dont
i will myself to turn away from temptation
when all i want is to succeed
i fail
too little or none, i shed nothing
i am still all that i was before

Take my hand to continents only known in the books,
the blue maps on tiny tables sat in stacks
ready for the lesson on Mexico, or thereabouts- third this week because
the timetable is weak, poorly thought through and cobbled
together out of half-dressed evenings in the lounges of
teachers; ones once loved by the master and mistresses, leaders
of the well dressed and caretakers.

Take my feet and walk with them, balancing
on borders separating language and currency,
the gymnast's beam looking out over the forestry,
its taller trees than you and me standing upon toes tipping
down towards the urgent ground, urgently warning to stay
upright and stick around, with her holding your hand.

Trigger finger 13 is hung
from his shoulders,
though not by hooks found in the butchers book,
but with pride and a sweating brow,
one that can survey the terrain with a quizzical eye,
analysing rustling in bushes only 3 clicks away.

Bible tattoos tattooed below the tribal
ones,
and a 13 on the finger used most
when they charge and come.