I trust a stranger with my body more than I trust myself
sometimes the scars tell the tale before I do
I seem to add on to my scrapbook of     suppressed depression
it's a villainy I choose to repeat
the damsel and Malificent wrapped in tinsel and a bow
I struggle to live
I find it hard to breath
wheezing every hour with a crutch under both arms
I wish to believe I am greater than this
greater than the x formation on my left breast
greater than the ghosts of lacerations on my pale thighs
translucent pupils resting in my eyes
why do I continue to lie? I haven't found myself. I haven't changed.
I have not.
Have I?