My rights aren't mine.
My feelings aren't mine.
They're determined
by the bittersweetness
of anxiety and depression.

   Molten into shards of
gold and plated by
shards of onyx,
they entrap the very
essence of happiness,
an emotion that's been
so delicately
dessicated from the
veins coursing
through my body,
and the swell of my heart.

    The ***** pumps blood,
but it is
molten and
deformed into
pure gold,
plated by
shards of onyx.

Those ruptures
wouldn't depart.
They were permanent,
yet obsolete to that
of my future, but their
pull shall never leave me.

   My happiness was cracked,
corrupted by the indiscretions
of nature and the depressive
reprieve of sorrow.

My heart wasn't mine
any longer.

   The gold, the onyx
twisted the melancholy
of my already fractured soul,
tying the compounds of my
heart into the mix, holding
it captive.

There was no getting
it back, for I had to live with
those scars all to myself.

   Others couldn't see
the streams and fractures
or punctures of
onyx
and of
gold.

They were mine to bare.

My rights, my mind,
my joy wasn't mine any
longer.

   Such pleasures
were at the disposal of
the fractured state of my being,
and I wouldn't see them
again, for nothing
could be what it once was.